THE 


ORCHID 

ROBERT   GRANT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"  I  ask  you  to  drink  to  the  happiness  of  the  loveliest  woman  in  creation.' 


THE  ORCHID 


BY 

ROBERT   GRANT 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ALONZO   KIMBALL 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW  YORK  :::::::::::::::  1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,  April, 


ps 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  /  ask  you  to  drink  to  the  happiness  of  the 

loveliest   woman  in  creation  "        Frontispiece 

Facing 

The  smile  of  incredulity  which  curved  her  *>a*'e 
lips  betrayed  entertainment  also  108 

"7  should  not  permit  it!"  he  thundered. 
"7  should  go  to  law;  I  should  appeal 
to  the  courts  "  156 

A  huge  machine  of  bridal  white  .  .  .  tore 

around  the  corner  222 


THE    ORCHID 


IT  was  generally  recognized  that  Lydia 
Arnold's  perceptions  were  quicker 
than  those  of  most  other  people.  She  was 
alert  in  grasping  the  significance  of  what 
was  said  to  her;  her  face  clearly  revealed 
this.  She  had  the  habit  of  deliberating  just 
an  instant  before  responding,  which  marked 
her  thought;  and  when  she  spoke,  her 
words  had  a  succinct  definiteness  of  their 
own.  The  quality  of  her  voice  arrested 
attention.  The  intonation  was  finished  yet 
dry:  finished  in  that  it  was  well  modu- 
lated; dry  in  that  it  was  void  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

[I] 


THE    ORCHID 


Yet  Lydia  was  far  from  a  grave  per- 
son. She  laughed  readily  and  freely,  but 
in  a  minor  key,  which  was  only  in  keep- 
ing with  her  other  attributes  of  fastid- 
iousness. Her  mental  acuteness  and  con- 
versational poise  were  accounted  for  at 
Westfield — the  town  within  the  limits  of 
which  dwelt  the  colony  of  which  she  was  a 
member — by  the  tradition  that  she  had  read 
everything,  or,  more  accurately,  that  she 
had  been  permitted  to  read  everything 
while  still  a  school-girl. 

Her  mother,  a  beautiful,  nervous  in- 
valid— one  of  those  mysterious  persons 
whose  peculiarities  are  pigeon-holed  in  the 
memories  of  their  immediate  families — had 
died  in  Lydia's  infancy.  Her  amiable  but 
self-indulgent  father  had  been  too  easy- 
going or  too  obtuse  to  follow  the  details  of 
her  home-training.  He  had  taken  refuge 

[2] 


THE    ORCHID 


from  qualms  or  perplexities  by  providing 
a  governess,  a  well-equipped,  matronly 
foreigner,  from  whom  she  acquired  a 
correct  French  accent  and  composed 
deportment,  both  of  which  were  now 
marks  of  distinction.  Mile.  Demorest 
would  have  been  the  last  woman  to  permit 
a  jeune  file  to  browse  unreservedly  in  a 
collection  of  miscellaneous  French  novels. 
But  Lydia  saw  no  reason  why  she  should 
inform  her  preceptress  that,  having  entered 
her  father's  library  in  search  of  "Ivanhoe" 
and  the  "Dutch  Republic,"  she  had  gone 
ithere  later  to  peruse  the  works  of  Flaubert, 
Octave  Feuillet,  and  Guy  de  Maupassant. 
Why,  indeed?  For,  to  begin  with,  was  she 
not  an  American  girl,  and  free  to  do  as  she 
chose?  And  then  again  the  evolution 
was  gradual ;  she  had  reached  this  stage  of 
culture  by  degrees.  She  read  everything 
[3] 


THE    ORCHID 


which  the  library  contained — poetry,  his- 
tory, philosophy,  fiction — and  having  ex- 
hausted these  resources,  she  turned  her  at- 
tention outside,  and  became  an  omnivorous 
devourer  of  current  literature. 

Before  her  "coming-out"  party  she  was 
familiar  with  all  the  "up-to-date"  books, 
and  had  opinions  on  many  problems,  sexual 
and  otherwise,  though  be  it  said  she  was 
an  eminently  proper  young  person  in  her 
language  and  behavior,  and  her  knowing- 
ness,  so  far  as  appeared,  was  merely  in- 
tellectual. Early  in  the  day  her  father's 
scrutiny  was  forever  dazzled  by  the  assur- 
ing discovery  that  she  was  immersed  in 
Scott.  Mr.  Arnold  had  been  told  by  some 
of  his  contemporaries  that  the  rising  gen- 
eration did  not  read  Sir  Walter,  a  heresy 
so  damnable  that  when  he  found  his 
daughter  pale  with  interest  over  the  sor- 
[4] 


THE    ORCHID 


rows  of  the  "Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  he 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  her  literary 
taste  was  conservative,  and  gave  no  more 
thought  to  this  feature  of  her  education. 
Presently  he  did  what  he  considered  the 
essentially  paternal  thing — introduced  her 
to  the  social  world  through  the  medium  of 
a  magnificent  ball,  which  taxed  his  income 
though  he  had  been  preparing  for  it  for  a 
year  or  two.  As  one  of  a  bevy  of  pretty, 
innocent-looking  maidens  in  white  tulle, 
Lydia  attracted  favorable  comment  from 
the  outset  by  her  piquant  expression  and 
stylish  figure.  But  shortly  after  the  close 
of  her  first  season  she  was  driven  into  re- 
tirement by  her  father's  death,  and  when 
next  she  appeared  on  the  horizon,  sixteen 
months  later,  it  was  as  a  spirited  follower 
of  the  hounds  belonging  to  the  Westfield 
Hunt  Club. 

C5] 


THE    ORCHID 


On  the  crisp  autumn  day  when  this  story 
opens,  the  members  of  that  energetic  body 
were  eagerly  discussing  the  interesting 
proposition  whether  or  not  Miss  Lydia  Ar- 
nold was  going  to  accept  Herbert  Maxwell 
as  a  husband.  This  was  the  universal 
query,  and  the  point  had  been  agitated  for 
the  past  six  weeks  with  increasing  curiosity. 
The  hunting  season  was  now  nearing  its 
close,  and  the  lover  was  still  setting  a  tre- 
mendous pace,  but  none  of  the  closest 
feminine  friends  of  the  young  woman  in 
question  appeared  to  have  inside  infor- 
mation. Even  her  bosom  friend,  Mrs. 
Walter  Cole,  as  she  joined  the  meet  that 
morning,  could  only  say  in  answer  to 
inquiries  that  Lydia  was  mum  as  an 
oyster. 

"I  suppose  the  reflection  that  the  off- 
spring might  resemble  Grandma  Maxwell 
[6] 


THE    ORCHID 


tends  to  counteract  the  glamour  of  the  four 
millions,"  remarked  one  of  the  group, 
Gerald  Marcy,  a  middle-aged  bachelor 
with  a  partiality  for  cynical  sallies — also 
an  ex-master  of  the  hounds  and  one  of  the 
veterans  of  the  colony.  He  was  mounted 
on  a  solid  roan  hunter  slightly  but  becom- 
ingly grizzled  like  himself.  Thereupon 
he  gave  a  twist  to  his  mustache,  as  he  was 
apt  to  do  after  uttering  what  he  thought 
was  a  good  thing.  Most  of  the  Westfield 
Hunt  Club  were  clean-shaven  young  men 
who  regarded  a  mustache  as  a  hirsute 
superfluity.  The  nucleus  of  the  club  had 
been  formed  twenty  years  previous — in  the 
late  seventies — at  which  time  it  was  the 
fashion  to  wear  hair  on  the  face,  but  of  the 
small  band  of  original  members  some  had 
grown  too  stout  or  too  shaky  to  hunt,  most 
had  families  which  forbade  them  to  run 
[7] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  risk  of  breaking  their  necks,  and  others 
were  dead. 

Mrs.  Cole's  reply  was  uttered  so  that 
only  Marcy  heard  it.  Perhaps  she  feared 
to  shock  the  smooth-shaven  younger  men, 
for,  though  she  prided  herself  on  her  com- 
plete sophistication  in  regard  to  the  world 
and  its  ways,  one  evidence  of  it  was  that 
she  suited  her  conversation  to  the  person 
with  whom  she  was  talking.  There  are 
points  of  view  which  a  young  matron  can 
discuss  with  a  middle-aged  bachelor  which 
might  embarrass  or  be  misinterpreted  by 
less  experienced  males.  So  she  caused  her 
pony  to  bound  a  little  apart  before  she  said 
to  Marcy,  who  followed  her : 

"I  doubt  very  much  if  children  of  her 
own  are  included  in  Lydia's  scheme  of 
life." 

Mrs.  Cole  was  a  bright-eyed,  vivacious 
[8] 


THE    ORCHID 


woman,  who  talked  fast  and  cleverly. 
She  was  fond  of  making  paradoxical  re- 
marks, and  of  defending  her  theses  stoutly. 
She  glanced  sideways  at  her  companion  to 
observe  the  effect  of  this  animadversion, 
then,  bending,  patted  the  neck  of  her  pal- 
frey caressingly.  She  was  herself  the 
mother  of  two  chubby  infants,  and,  out  of 
deference  to  domestic  claims,  she  no  longer 
followed  the  hounds,  but  simply  took  a 
morning  spin  to  the  meets  on  a  safe 
hack. 

Marcy  smiled  appreciatively.  As  a  man 
of  the  world  he  felt  bound  to  do  this,  yet 
as  a  man  of  the  world  he  felt  shocked  at 
the  hypothesis.  Race  suicide  was  in  his 
eyes  a  cardinal  sin  compared  with  which 
youthful  indiscretions  resulting  from  hot 
blood  appeared  trifling  and  normal.  Be- 
sides, it  was  deliberate  rebellion  against  the 
[9] 


THE    ORCHID 


vested  rights  of  man.  This  latter  consid- 
eration gave  the  cue  to  his  slightly  dogged 
answer. 

"I  rather  think  that  Herbert  Maxwell 
would  have  something  to  say  about  that." 

Mrs.  Cole  surveyed  him  archly,  meditat- 
ing a  convincing  retort,  when  suddenly  a 
new  group  of  riders  appeared  over  the 
crest  of  an  intervening  hill.  "Here  they 
are!"  she  cried  with  a  gusto  which  pro- 
claimed that  the  opportunity  for  subtle  con- 
fabulation on  the  point  at  issue  was  at  an 
end. 

The  newcomers,  all  ardent  hunting 
spirits — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Andrew  Cunning- 
ham, Miss  Peggy  Blake,  Miss  Lydia  Ar- 
nold, Guy  Perry  and  Herbert  Maxwell — 
came  speeding  forward  at  a  brisk  gallop. 
Mrs.  Cunningham — May  Cunningham — 
was  a  short,  dumpy  woman,  amiable  and 
[10] 


THE    ORCHID 


popular,  but  hard  featured,  as  though  she 
had  burned  the  candle  in  social  comings 
and  goings  in  her  youth,  which  indeed  was 
the  case.  But  since  her  marriage  she  had 
by  way  of  settling  down  fixed  her  energies 
on  cross-country  riding,  and  was  familiarly 
known  as  the  mother  of  the  hunt.  She  had 
an  excellent  seat.  She  and  her  husband,  a 
burly  sportsman  whose  ruling  passion  was 
to  reduce  his  weight  below  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  whose  predilection  for  gaudy 
effects  in  waistcoats  and  stocks  always 
pushed  the  prevailing  fashion  hard,  were 
prime  movers  in  the  Westfield  set.  They 
had  no  children,  and,  as  Mrs.  Cole  once 
said,  it  sometimes  seemed  as  though  the 
hounds  took  the  place  of  them. 

Miss  Peggy  Blake  was  a  breezy  Ama- 
zon, comely,  long-limbed  and  enthusiastic, 
of  many  adjectives  but  simple  soul,  whose 
EH] 


THE    ORCHID 


hair  was  apt  to  tumble  down  at  inoppor- 
tune moments,  but  who  stuck  at  nothing 
which  promised  fresh  physical  exhilaration. 
Guy  Perry,  a  young  broker  who  had  made 
a  fortune  in  copper  stocks,  was  one  of  her 
devoted  swains.  But  dashingly  as  she 
rode,  her  carriage  lacked  Lydia  Arnold's 
distinction  and  witchery.  Indeed,  that 
slight,  dainty  young  person  seemed  a  part 
of  the  animal,  so  gracefully  and  jauntily 
did  she  follow  the  movements  of  her 
rangy,  spirited  thoroughbred.  When  Ger- 
ald Marcy  exclaimed  fervently,  "By  Jove, 
but  she  rides  well!"  no  one  of  the  await- 
ing group  was  doubtful  as  to  whom  he 
meant. 

Keeping  as  close  to  his  Dulcinea  as  he 
could,  but  not  quite  abreast,  came  Herbert 
Maxwell,  a  rather  lumbering  equestrian. 
Fashion  had  led  him,  the  previous  season, 

[12] 


THE    ORCHID 


as  a  young  man  with  great  possessions,  to 
follow  the  hounds,  but  sedately,  as  became 
a  somewhat  sober  novice.  Love  now 
spurred  him  to  take  the  highest  stone  walls, 
and  for  the  purpose  he  had  bought  a  couple 
of  famous  hunters.  He  had  long  ago  dis- 
missed both  fear  and  caution,  and  had 
eyes  only  for  the  nape  of  Miss  Arnold's 
neck  as  they  sped  over  hill  and  dale. 
Twice  in  the  last  six  weeks  he  had  come  a 
cropper,  as  the  phrase  is,  and  been  cut  up  a 
bit,  but  he  still  rode  valiantly,  bent  on  run- 
ning the  risk  of  a  final  tumble  which  would 
break  not  his  ribs  but  his  heart.  In  every- 
day life  he  appeared  large  and  above  the 
average  height,  with  reddish-brown  hair 
and  eyebrows  and  a  somewhat  grave  coun- 
tenance— rather  a  nondescript  young  man, 
but  entirely  unobjectionable;  the  sort  of 
personality  which,  as  Lydia's  friends  were 
[13] 


THE    ORCHID 


saying,  a  clever  woman  could  mould  into  a 
solid  if  not  ornamental  social  pillar. 

For  Herbert  Maxwell  was  a  new  man. 
That  is,  the  parents  of  the  members  of 
the  Westfield  Hunt  Club  remembered  his 
father  as  a  dealer  in  furniture,  selling 
goods  in  his  own  store,  a  red-visaged 
round-faced,  stubby  looking  citizen  with  a 
huge  standing  collar  gaping  at  the  front. 
Though  he  had  grown  rich  in  the  process, 
settled  in  the  fashionable  quarter  of  the 
city  and  sent  his  boy  to  college  in  order  to 
make  desirable  friends  and  get  a  good  edu- 
cation, it  could  not  be  denied  that  he  smelt 
of  varnish  metaphorically  if  not  actually, 
and  that  Herbert  was,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
defensive  from  a  social  point  of  view. 
Everybody's  eye  was  on  him  to  see  that  he 
did  not  make  some  "break,"  and  inasmuch 
as  he  was  commonly,  if  patronizingly, 


THE    ORCHID 


spoken  of  as  "a  very  decent  sort  of  chap," 
it  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  he  had 
managed  to  escape  serious  criticism.  His 
sober  manner  was  partly  to  be  accounted 
for  by  his  determination  to  keep  himself 
well  in  hand,  which  had  been  formed  ten 
years  previous,  during  his  Freshman  year, 
when  one  of  his  classmates,  to  the  manner 
born,  informed  him  in  a  moment  of  frank- 
ness that  he  was  too  loud-mouthed  for  suc- 
cess. 

This  had  been  the  turning-point  in  his 
career;  he  had  been  toning  down  ever 
since;  he  had  been  cultivating  reserve, 
checking  all  temptations  toward  extrava- 
gance of  speech,  deportment  or  dress,  and, 
in  short,  had  become  convincingly  re- 
pressed— that  is,  up  to  the  hour  of  his  in- 
fatuation for  Lydia  Arnold.  Since  then  he 
had  let  himself  go,  yet  not  indecorously, 


THE    ORCHID 


and  with  due  regard  to  the  proprieties.  All 
the  world  loves  a  lover,  and  to  the  West- 
field  Hunt  Club  Herbert  Maxwell's  kick- 
ing over  the  bars  of  colorless  convention- 
ality appeared  both  pardonable  and  re- 
freshing, especially  as  it  was  recognized 
that  the  manifestations  of  his  ardor,  though 
unmistakable,  had  not  been  lacking  in  taste. 
The  sternest  censors  of  society  had  not  the 
heart  to  sneer  at  the  possessor  of  four  mil- 
lions because  the  entertainments  which  he 
gave  in  his  lady  love's  honor  were  more 
sumptuous  than  the  occasion  demanded, 
and  that  in  his  solicitude  to  keep  up  with 
her  on  the  hunting  field  he  was  an  easy  vic- 
tim to  the  horse-dealers.  Before  the  bar  of 
nice  judgment  it  was  tacitly  admitted  that 
he  appeared  to  better  advantage  than  if  he 
had  ambled  after  his  goddess  with  the  lack- 
lustre indifference  which  some  of  his  betters 
[16] 


THE    ORCHID 


were  apt  to  affect.  It  takes  one  to  the 
manner  born  to  be  listless  in  love  and 
yet  prevail;  and  so  it  was  that  Max- 
well's reversion  to  breakneck  manners  had 
given  a  pleasant  thrill  to  this  fastidious 
colony. 

Gay  greetings  and  felicitations  on  the 
beauty  of  the  day  for  hunting  purposes 
were  exchanged  between  the  new-comers 
and  their  friends.  The  men  in  their  red 
coats  had  a  word  of  gallantry  or  chaff  for 
every  woman.  New  equestrians  appeared 
approaching  from  diverse  directions,  while 
suddenly  from  the  kennels  a  few  rods  dis- 
tant issued  a  barking,  snuffing  pack  of 
eager  hounds,  conducted  by  Kenneth  Post, 
the  master,  whose  expansive  high  white 
stock  and  shining  black  leather  boots  pro- 
claimed that  he  took  his  functions  seriously. 
This  was  a  red-letter  day  for  him,  as  he  had 
[17] 


THE    ORCHID 


invited  the  hunt  to  breakfast  with  him  at 
the  club-house  after  the  run. 

Lydia,  on  her  arrival,  had  guided  her 
thoroughbred  to  the  other  side  of  Mrs. 
Cole  so  deftly  that  her  admirer  was  shut 
out  from  immediate  pursuit.  At  a  glance 
from  her  the  two  women's  heads  bent  close 
together  in  scrutiny  of  some  disarrange- 
ment in  her  riding-habit. 

"Fanny,"  she  whispered,  "I've  done  it." 
"Lydia !    When  did  it  happen?" 
"Last  evening.     I've  given  him  permis- 
sion to  announce  it  at  the  breakfast." 

"My  dear,  I'm  just  thrilled.  You've 
kept  us  all  guessing." 

"I've  heard  that  the  betting  was  even," 
answered  Lydia  with  dry  complacency. 
The  intimation  that  she  had  kept  the  world 
in  the  dark  was  evidently  agreeable.  "I 
wished  you  to  know  first  of  all." 
[18] 


THE    ORCHID 


"That  was  lovely  of  you.  And  how 
clever  to  escape  the  bore  of  writing  all 
those  hateful  notes!  That  was  just  like 
you,  Lydia." 

"I  know  a  girl  who  wrote  two  hundred, 
and  the  day  they  were  ready  to  be  sent  out 
changed  her  mind.  I  don't  wish  to  run  the 
risk.  Here  comes  Mr.  Marcy." 

Fannie  Cole  gave  her  hand  an  ecstatic 
squeeze  and  they  lifted  their  heads  to  meet 
the  common  enemy,  man.  It  was  time  to 
start,  and  he  was  solicitous  lest  something 
were  wrong  with  Miss  Arnold's  saddle 
girths. 

"Beauty  in  distress?"  he  murmured  with 
a  tug  at  his  mustache.  Marcy  had  his  com- 
monplace saws,  like  most  of  us. 

Mrs.  Cole  was  opening  her  mouth  to  re- 
assure him  on  that  score  when  she  was  fore- 
stalled by  Lydia. 

[19] 


THE    ORCHID 


"That's  a  question,  Mr.  Marcy,  which 
can  be  more  easily  answered  a  year  or  two 
hence." 

Marcy  bowed  low  in  his  saddle.  "At 
your  pleasure,  of  course.  I  did  not  come 
to  pry."  At  his  best  Marcy  had  quick  per- 
ceptions and  could  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether. He  was  assisted  to  the  divination 
that  something  was  in  the  wind  by  catch- 
ing sight  at  the  moment  of  Herbert  Max- 
well's countenance.  That  worthy  had  been 
blocked  in  his  progress  by  pretty  Mrs. 
Baxter,  who,  having  resented  his  attempt 
to  squeeze  past  her  by  the  following  re- 
mark, had  barred  his  way  with  her  horse's 
flank. 

"We  all  know  where  you  are  heading, 
Mr.  Maxwell,  but  as  a  punishment  for  en- 
deavoring to  shove  me  aside  you  must  pay 
toll  by  talking  to  me  for  a  little." 

[20] 


THE    ORCHID 


The  culprit  had  started  and  stared  like 
one  awakened  in  his  sleep,  and  stammered 
his  apologies  to  his  laughing  tormentor. 
But  while  she  kept  him  at  bay,  his  eyes 
could  not  help  straying  beyond  her  toward 
the  woman  of  his  heart,  and  it  was  their 
peculiar  expression  which  drew  from 
Marcy  the  remark  which  he  referred  to 
later  as  an  inspiration. 

"It's  not  exactly  pertinent  to  the  subject, 
Miss  Arnold,  but  Herbert  Maxwell  has  the 
look  this  morning  of  having  seen  the  Holy 
Grail." 

Lydia  calmly  turned  her  graceful  head 
in  the  direction  indicated,  then  facing  her 
interrogator,  said  oracularly  after  a  pause : 
"The  wisest  men  are  liable  to  see  false 
visions.  But  provided  they  are  happy, 
does  it  really  matter,  Mr.  Marcy?" 

Whereupon,  without  waiting  for  a  re- 

[21] 


THE    ORCHID 


sponse  to  this  Delphic  utterance,  she  tapped 
her  thoroughbred  with  her  hunting  crop 
and  cantered  forward  to  take  her  place  in 
the  van  of  those  about  to  follow  the 
hounds. 


[22] 


II 

MRS.  WALTER  COLE  was  glad  to  find 
herself  alone  after  the  hounds  were  off. 
Without  waiting  to  be  joined  by  any 
women,  who,  like  herself,  had  come  to  see 
the  start  and  intended  to  jog  on  the  flank, 
cut  corners  and  so  be  in  at  the  finish,  she  put 
her  hack  at  a  brisk  canter  in  the  direction 
of  a  neighboring  copse,  seeking  a  bridle- 
path through  the  woods  which  would  bring 
her  out  not  far  from  the  club-house  after 
a  pleasant  circuit.  She  was  indeed  thrilled, 
and,  inasmuch  as  she  must  remain  tongue- 
tied,  she  could  not  bear  the  society  of  her 
sex,  and  sought  solitude  and  reverie.  And 
so  Lydia  had  done  it.  Intimate  as  they 
were,  she  had  been  kept  guessing  like  the 
[23] 


THE    ORCHID 


rest,  and  up  to  the  moment  of  the  disclos- 
ure of  the  absorbing  confidence  she  had 
never  been  able  to  feel  sure  whether  Lydia 
would  or  not.  Lydia  married!  And  if 
so?  She  would  have  been  sure  to  marry 
some  day ;  and  to  marry  an  entirely  reputa- 
ble and  presentable  man  with  four  millions 
was,  after  all,  an  eminently  normal  pro- 
ceeding. 

Yet  somehow  it  was  one  thing  to  think 
of  her  as  liable  to  marry,  another  to 
recognize  that  she  was  actually  engaged. 
It  was  the  concrete  reality  of  Lydia  Arnold 
married  and  settled  which  set  Mrs.  Cole's 
nimble  brain  spinning  with  speculative, 
sympathetic  interest  as  the  dry  autumn 
leaves  cracked  under  the  hoofs  of  her  walk- 
ing horse,  to  which  she  had  given  a  loose 
rein.  Lydia  had  such  highly  evolved  ideas 
of  her  own;  and  how  would  they  accord 
[24] 


THE    ORCHID 


with  the  connubial  relation  ?  Not  that  she 
knew  these  ideas  in  specific  detail,  for 
Lydia  had  never  hinted  at  a  system;  but 
from  time  to  time  in  the  relaxations  of 
spirit  intimacy  there  had  been  droppings — 
flashes — innuendoes,  which  had  set  the 
world  in  a  new  light,  blazed  the  path  as  it 
were  for  a  new  feminine  philosophy,  and 
which  to  a  clever  woman  like  herself,  fast- 
ened securely  by  domestic  ties  to  the  exist- 
ing order  of  things,  were  alike  entertaining 
and  suggestive.  Mrs.  Cole  drew  a  deep 
breath,  as  once  more  recurred  to  her 
sundry  remarks  which  had  provided  her 
already  that  morning  with  material  for 
causing  no  less  experienced  a  person  than 
Mr.  Gerald  Marcy  to  prick  up  his  ears. 
She  and  her  husband  had  set  up  housekeep- 
ing on  a  humble  scale — almost  poverty 
from  the  Westfield  point  of  view — and  she 
[25] 


THE    ORCHID 


remembered  the  contemplative  silence  more 
eloquent  than  words  when,  three  years 
previous,  hungry  for  enthusiasm,  she  had 
taken  Lydia  into  the  nursery  to  admire  her 
first-born.  All  her  other  unmarried  friends 
had  gone  into  ecstasies  over  baby,  as  be- 
came true  daughters  of  Eve.  Lydia,  after 
long  scrutiny,  had  simply  said: 

"Well,  dear,  I  suppose  you  think  it's 
worth  while." 

Thus  wondering  how  Lydia  would  deal 
with  the  problems  of  matrimony,  and  al- 
most bursting  with  her  secret,  Mrs.  Cole 
walked  her  horse  until  the  novelty  of  the 
revelation  had  worn  off  a  little.  When  she 
left  the  covert  at  a  point  suggested  by  the 
baying  of  the  dogs,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  hunt  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  horizon 
to  that  where  it  had  disappeared  from 
view.  Assuming  that  the  finish  was  likely 
[26] 


THE    ORCHID 


to  occur  in  the  meadow  lands  in  the  rear 
of  the  club-house,  she  proceeded  to  gallop 
briskly  across  the  intervening  valley  in 
the  hope  of  anticipating  the  hounds.  Time, 
however,  had  slipped  away  faster  than  she 
supposed.  At  all  events,  when  she  was  still 
some  little  distance  from  the  field  which 
was  her  destination  she  beheld  the  hounds 
scampering  down  the  slope  from  the  wood- 
lands beyond.  A  moment  later  the  air 
resounded  with  their  yelpings  as  they  at- 
tacked the  raw  meat  provided  as  a  reward 
for  the  deceit  imposed  on  them  by  the 
anise-seed  scent.  Close  on  their  heels  came 
the  Master  and  the  leading  spirits  of  the 
chase,  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Cole  arrived 
the  entire  hunt  had  put  in  an  appearance  or 
been  accounted  for,  and  was  proceeding 
leisurely  toward  the  club,  gayly  comparing 
notes  on  the  incidents  of  the  run.  There 
[27] 


THE    ORCHID 


had  been  amusing  casualties.  Douglas 
Hale's  horse,  having  failed  to  clear  a 
ditch,  had  tossed  its  ponderous  rider  over 
its  head — happily  without  serious  conse- 
quences— and  in  the  act  of  floundering  out 
had  planted  a  shower  of  mud  on  the 
person  of  Guy  Perry,  so  that  the  ordi- 
narily spruce  young  broker  was  a  sight 
to  behold. 

The  Westfield  Hunt  Club  was  one  of  a 
number  of  social  colonies  in  the  eastern  sec- 
tion of  the  country  which  in  the  course  of 
the  last  twenty-five  years  have  come  into 
being  and  flourished.  Three  principal 
causes  have  contributed  to  their  evolution: 
the  increase  in  wealth  and  in  the  number 
of  people  with  comfortable  means,  the 
growing  partiality  for  outdoor  athletic 
sports,  and  the  tendency  on  the  part  of 
those  who  could  afford  two  homes  to  escape 

[28] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  stuffy  air  of  the  cities  during  as  many 
months  as  possible,  and  on  the  part  of 
young  couples  with  only  one  home  to  set 
up  their  household  gods  in  the  country. 
Our  ancestors  of  consideration  were  apt  to 
hug  the  cities  and  towns.  Their  summer 
excursions  to  the  seaside  rarely  began  be- 
fore July,  and  fathers  of  families  preferred 
to  be  safe  at  home  before  the  brewing  of 
the  equinoxial  storm.  But  the  towering 
bricks  and  mortar  and  increasing  pressure 
of  urban  life  have  little  by  little  prolonged 
the  season  of  emancipation  in  the  fresh  air, 
and  spacious  modern  villas,  with  many 
bath-rooms  and  all  the  modern  improve- 
ments, have  supplanted  the  primitive  cot- 
tages of  the  former  generation,  just  as  the 
rank  fields  of  gay  butter-cups  and  daisies 
have  given  place  to  velvety  lawns,  exten- 
sive stables,  and  terraced  Italian  gardens. 
[29] 


THE    ORCHID 


The  Westfield  Hunt  Club  was  primarily 
a  sporting  colony — that  is,  outdoor  sport 
was  its  ruling  passion.  Cross-country  rid- 
ing had  been  its  first  love,  at  a  time  when 
the  free-born  farmers  of  the  neighborhood 
looked  askance  at  the  introduction  of  what 
they  considered  dudish  British  innovations. 
Yet  it  promptly  offered  hospitality  to  the 
rising  interest  in  sports  of  every  kind,  and 
the  devotees  of  tennis,  polo  and  golf  found 
there  ample  accommodation  for  the  pursuit 
of  their  favorite  pastimes. 

At  the  date  of  our  narrative  the  in- 
terest in  tennis  was  at  a  minimum; 
polo,  always  a  sport  in  which  none  but 
the  prosperous  few  can  afford  to  shine, 
had  only  a  small  following;  but  golf 
was  at  the  height  of  its  fashionable  ascen- 
dency. Everybody  was  playing  golf,  not 
only  the  young  and  supple,  the  middle- 
[30] 


THE    ORCHID 


aged  and  persevering,  but  every  man  how- 
ever clumsy  and  every  woman  however 
feeble  or  gawky  who  felt  constrained  to 
follow  the  latest  social  fad  as  a  law  of  his 
or  her  being.  Every  links  in  the  country 
was  crowded  with  agitated  followers  of 
the  royal  and  ancient  game,  who  bought 
clubs  galore  in  the  constant  hope  of  acquir- 
ing distance  and  escaping  bunkers,  and 
who  were  alternately  pitied  and  bullied  by 
the  attendant  army  of  caddies,  sons  of  the 
small  farmers  whose  views  regarding  Brit- 
ish innovations  had  been  substantially 
modified  by  the  accompanying  shower  of 
American  quarters  and  dimes. 

Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  the  at- 
titude of  the  country-side  regarding  all 
the  doings  of  the  colony  had  undergone 
a  gradual  but  complete  change.  This  was 
due  to  the  largess  and  social  tact  of  the 


THE    ORCHID 


new-comers.  To  begin  with,  they  were 
eager  to  pay  roundly  for  the  privilege 
of  trampling  down  crops  and  riding 
through  fences.  Having  thus  put  mat- 
ters on  a  liberal  pecuniary  basis,  they 
endeavored  to  translate  grim  forbearance 
for  business  reasons  into  a  more  genial 
frame  of  mind  by  horse  shows  with  popu- 
lar features,  and  country  fairs  where  fat 
prizes  for  large  vegetables  and  free  din- 
ners bore  testimony  to  the  good-will  of  the 
promoters.  A  ball  at  which  the  pink- 
coated  male  members  of  the  club  danced 
with  the  farmers'  wives  and  daughters,  and 
Mrs.  Andrew  Cunningham,  with  a  corps 
of  fair  assistants,  stood  up  with  the  country 
swains  while  they  cut  pigeon-wings  in  utter 
gravity,  was  an  annual  sop  to  local  sensi- 
bilities and  a  bid  for  popular  regard. 
Little  by  little  the  neighborhood  had 
[32] 


THE    ORCHID 


thawed.  Surely  the  new-comers  must  be 
good  fellows,  if  Westfield's  tax  receipts 
were  growing  in  volume  without  demur, 
and  there  was  constantly  increasing  em- 
ployment for  the  people  not  only  on  the 
public  roads,  but  in  carpentry,  plumbing, 
and  all  sorts  of  jobs  on  the  new  places, 
besides  a  splendid  market  for  their  sheep 
and  chickens  and  garden  produce.  From 
Westfield's  standpoint  the  ways  of  some  of 
these  individuals  with  "money  to  burn" 
were  puzzling,  but  if  grown-up  folk  could 
find  amusement  in  chasing  a  little  white  ball 
across  country,  the  common  sense  of  West- 
field  could  afford  to  be  indulgent  under  ex- 
isting circumstances. 

The  quarters  to  which  the  hunting  party 
now  repaired  in  gay  spirits  was,  as  its  ap- 
pearance indicated,   a   farm-house  of  an- 
cient aspect,  which  had  been  altered  over 
[33] 


THE    ORCHID 


to  begin  with,  and  been  amplified  later  to 
suit  the  greater  requirements  of  the  club. 
The  rambling  effect  of  the  low-studded 
rooms  had  been  enhanced  by  sundry  wings 
and  annexes,  the  result  of  which  was  far 
from  convincing  architecturally,  but  which 
suggested  a  quaint  cosiness  very  satisfying 
and  precious  to  the  original  members. 
Progress,  reform,  innovation — call  it  what 
you  will — was  already  rife  in  the  col- 
ony itself,  a  case,  it  would  seem,  of  re- 
fining gold  or  painting  the  lily.  One  had 
only  to  observe  the  more  elaborate  charac- 
ter of  the  new  houses  to  be  convinced  of 
this.  The  pioneers  had  been  content  to 
leave  the  original  structures  standing,  and 
to  do  them  over  with  new  plumbing  and 
new  wall-papers.  Then  it  occurred  to 
some  one  richer  than  his  fellows,  or  whose 
wife  remembered  the  scriptural  admonition 
[34] 


THE    ORCHID 


against  putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles, 
to  pull  down  an  ancient  farm-house  and  re- 
place it  with  a  comely  modern  villa.  The 
villa  was  simple  and  an  ornament  to  the 
landscape,  and  though  the  wiseacres  shook 
their  heads  and  described  it  as  an  entering 
wedge,  the  general  consensus  of  the  colony 
declared  it  an  improvement.  Others  fol- 
lowed suit,  and  within  two  years  there  was 
a  dozen  of  these  pleasant-looking  homes  in 
the  vicinity. 

But  latterly  a  new  tendency  had  mani- 
fested itself.  Three  sportsmen  of  large 
possessions,  who  had  decided  to  spend 
most  of  the  year  in  the  country,  had 
erected  establishments  on  an  imposing 
scale,  very  spacious,  very  stately,  with  ex- 
tensive stables  and  all  the  appurtenances 
befitting  a  magnificent  country-seat.  As 
the  owners  were  building  simultaneously, 
[351 


THE    ORCHID 


there  had  naturally  been  some  rivalry  to 
produce  the  most  imposing  result.  The 
effect  of  these  splendors  was  already  per- 
ceptible. Others  with  large  possessions 
were  talking  of  invading  Westfield,  land 
was  rising  in  value,  and  it  cost  the  colony 
more  to  entertain.  Most  terrible  of  all  to 
the  pioneers,  there  was  unconcealed  whis- 
pering that  the  club-house  must  come  down 
and  be  replaced  by  a  convenient  modern 
structure;  that  more  commodious  stables 
were  needed;  that  the  golf  links  should  be 
materially  lengthened,  and  that  both  the 
annual  dues  and  the  membership  must  be 
increased  to  help  provide  for  these  im- 
provements. As  a  consequence  most  of  the 
old  members  were  irate  on  the  subject,  and 
Gerald  Marcy  was  quoted  as  having  said 
that  to  do  away  with  the  original  quarters 
would  be  an  act  of  sacrilege. 
[36] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Are  not  the  rafters  sacred  from  time- 
honored  association?"  he  had  inquired  in 
a  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 

"Principally  with  champagne,"  had 
been  Guy  Perry's  comment  on  this  fervent 
apostrophe.  Youth  is  fickle  and  partial  to 
change.  Guy  voiced  the  sentiment  of  the 
younger  element  in  craving  modern  com- 
fort and  conveniences,  which  could  be  ob- 
tained by  demolishing  the  old  rattle-trap, 
as  the  less  conservative  styled  it,  and 
putting  up  a  clean,  commodious,  attractive- 
looking  club-house.  Guy  himself  had 
given  out  that  his  firm  was  ready  to  under- 
write the  bonds  necessary  to  finance  all  the 
proposed  changes.  Thus  it  will  be  seen 
that  at  this  period  social  conditions  at 
Westfield  were  in  a  condition  of  ferment 
and  change,  although  the  colony  was  still 
youthful.  Yet  differences  of  opinion  were 

[37] 


THE    ORCHID 


merged  on  this  particular  morning  in  the 
enjoyment  of  sport  and  the  crisp  autumn 
weather.  The  returning  members  of  the 
hunt  found  at  the  club-house  some  of  the 
golf  players  of  both  sexes,  who  had  been 
invited  by  the  master  of  the  hounds  to  join 
them  at  breakfast,  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  company  was  seated  at  table. 

Everyone  was  hungry,  and  everyone 
seemed  in  good  spirits.  Conversation 
flowed  spontaneously,  or,  in  other  words, 
everyone  seemed  to  be  talking  at  once. 
The  host,  Kenneth  Post,  finding  himself 
free  for  a  moment  from  all  responsibilities 
save  to  see  that  the  waiters  did  their  duty, 
inasmuch  as  the  woman  on  either  side  of 
him  was  exchanging  voluble  pleasantries 
with  someone  else,  cast  a  contented  glance 
around  the  mahogany.  Personal  badinage, 
as  he  well  knew,  was  the  current  coin  of  his 
[38] 


THE    ORCHID 


set.  The  occasion  on  which  it  was  absent 
or  flagged  was  regarded  as  dull.  Subjects, 
ideas,  theories  bored  his  companions — es- 
pecially the  women — as  a  social  pastime. 
What  they  liked  was  to  talk  about  people, 
to  gossip  of  one  another's  affairs  or  failings 
when  separated,  to  discharge  at  one  an- 
other keen  but  good-humored  chaff  when 
they  met.  Naturally  the  host  was  gratified 
by  the  universal  chatter,  for  obviously  his 
friends  were  enjoying  themselves.  Never- 
theless there  seemed  to  be  something  in  the 
air  not  to  be  explained  by  the  exhilaration 
resulting  from  the  run  or  by  cocktails  be- 
fore luncheon.  As  he  mused,  his  eyes  fell 
on  Herbert  Maxwell  and  he  wondered. 
That  faithful  but  solid  equestrian  was  com- 
monly reticent  and  rather  inert  in  speech, 
but  now,  with  face  aglow,  he  was  bandying 
words  with  Miss  Peggy  Blake  and  another 
[39] 


THE    ORCHID 


young  woman  at  the  same  time.  Post  re- 
membered that  he  had  seen  him  take 
three  drinks  at  the  bar,  which  for  him  was 
an  innovation.  The  Master  felt  know- 
ing, and  instinctively  his  eyes  sought  the 
countenance  of  Miss  Arnold.  It  was  de- 
mure and  furnished  no  clue  to  her  ad- 
mirer's mood,  unless  a  faint  smile  which 
suggested  momentary  content  was  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  indication. 

While  Kenneth  Post  was  thus  observing 
his  guests  he  was  recalled  to  more  active 
duties  by  Mrs.  Andrew  Cunningham,  who, 
in  her  capacity  of  mother  of  the  hunt,  had 
been  placed  at  his  right  hand.  Having  fin- 
ished her  soft-shell  crab  and  emptied  her 
quiver  of  timely  shafts  upon  the  young  man 
at  her  other  elbow,  she  had  turned  to  her 
host  for  a  familiar  chat  on  the  topic  at  that 
time  nearest  her  heart. 

"I  hope  you're  on  our  side,  Mr.  Post — 
[40] 


THE    ORCHID 


that  you  are  opposed  to  the  new  order  of 
things  which  would  drive  every  one  except 
millionaires  out  of  Westfield?  Tell  me 
that  you  intend  to  vote  against  pulling 
down  this  dear  old  sanctuary.  It's  a  rook- 
ery, if  you  like,  but  that's  its  charm.  Will 
anything  they  build  take  the  place  of  it  in 
our  affections?" 

"We've  had  lots  of  good  times  here,  of 
course,  and  I'm  as  fond  of  the  old  place  as 
anyone,  but — the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Cunning- 
ham, I'm  in  a  difficult  position.  The 
younger  men  count  on  me  in  a  way;  it  was 
they  who  chose  me  master,  and  in  a  sense 
I'm  their  representative;  so " 

He  paused,  and  allowed  the  ellipsis  to 
convey  an  intimation  of  what  he  might  be 
driven  to  by  the  rising  generation,  to  which 
he  was  more  nearly  allied  by  age  than  to 
the  older  faction. 

Mrs.  Cunningham  looked  up  in  his  face 
[40 


THE    ORCHID 


in  doughty  expostulation.  Her  round 
cheeks  reminded  him  of  ruddy  but  slightly 
withered  crab-apples.  "The  time  has  come 
for  Andrew  and  me  to  pull  up  stakes,  I 
fear.  The  life  here'll  be  spoiled.  Every- 
thing is  going  up  in  price — land,  servants, 
marketing,  horses,  assessments." 

"That's  the  case  everywhere,  isn't  it?" 
Kenneth  was  an  easy-going  fellow,  and  pre- 
ferred smiling  acquiescence,  but  when  taken 
squarely  to  task  he  had  the  courage  of  his 
convictions.  "The  fellows  wish  more  com- 
forts and  facilities.  There  are  next  to  no 
bathing  accommodations  at  present,  and 
everything  is  cramped,  and — and  really 
it's  so,  if  one  looks  dispassionately — 
fusty." 

"I  adore  the  fustiness." 

"Wait  until  you  see  the  improvements. 
Mark  my  words,  six  months  after  they  are 
[42] 


THE    ORCHID 


finished  nothing  would  induce  you  to  re- 
turn to  the  old  order  of  things.  We're 
sure  of  the  money;  the  loan  has  been  un- 
derwritten by  a  syndicate." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  groaned.  "Exactly. 
So  has  everything  in  Westfield,  to  judge  by 
appearances.  The  palaces  erected  by  the 
Douglas  Hales,  the  Marburys,  and  Mr. 
Gordon  Wallace  have  given  the  death- 
blow to  simple  ways,  and  we  shall  soon  be 
in  the  grip  of  a  plutocracy.  The  original 
band  of  gentlemen  farmers  who  came  here 
to  get  close  to  nature  and  to  one  another 
are  undone,  have  become  back  numbers, 
and" — she  lowered  her  voice  to  suit  the 
exigencies — "in  case  Lydia  Arnold  accepts 
Herbert  Maxwell,  she  will  not  rest  until 
she  has  something  more  imposing  and  gor- 
geous than  anything  yet." 

Kenneth  eagerly  took  advantage  of  the 

[43] 


THE    ORCHID 


opportunity  to  divert  the  emphasis  to  that 
ever-interesting  speculation. 

"Have  you  any  light  to  throw  on  the 
burning  problem?"  he  asked. 

The  mother  of  the  hunt  shook  her  head. 
"Mrs.  Cole  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  'I've 
tried  to  make  up  my  mind  for  her  by  put- 
ting myself  in  her  place  and  endeavoring 
to  decide  what  conclusion  I,  with  her  char- 
acteristics, would  come  to,  and  I  find  my- 
self still  wobbling,  because  she's  Lydia, 
and  he's  what  he  is,  which  would  be 
eminently  desirable  for  some  women, 
but '  " 

A  sudden  hush  around  the  table 
prevented  the  conclusion  of  this  phil- 
osophic utterance.  The  sportsman  of 
whom  she  was  speaking  had  risen  with  a 
brimming  glass  of  champagne  in  one  hand 
and  was  accosting  the  master  of  the 
[44] 


THE    ORCHID 


hounds.  A  general  thrill  of  expectancy 
succeeded  the  hush.  What  was  he  going 
to  say?  Speeches  were  not  altogether  un- 
known at  Westfield  hunt  breakfasts,  but 
they  were  not  apt  to  be  so  impromptu, 
nor  the  contribution  of  such  a  negative  soul 
as  Herbert  Maxwell.  Gerald  Marcy,  sit- 
ting next  to  Mrs.  Cole,  was  prompted  to 
repeat  his  observation  of  the  morning.  "I 
was  right,"  he  whispered.  "He  has  seen 
the  Holy  Grail." 

"Wait  —  just  wait,"  she  answered 
tensely.  She  knew  what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, and  as  her  dark  eyes  vibrated  deftly 
from  Herbert's  face  to  Lydia's  and  back 
again,  she  longed  for  two  pairs  that  she 
might  not  for  an  instant  lose  the  expression 
on  either.  Meanwhile  the  host  had  rapped 
on  the  table  and  was  saying  encourag- 
ingly: 

[45] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Our  friend  Mr.  Herbert  Maxwell  de- 
sires to  make  a  few  remarks." 

"Hear— hear!"  cried  Douglas  Hale 
raucously.  His  fall  had  obviously  dulled 
the  nicety  of  his  instincts,  for  everyone  else 
was  too  curious  to  utter  a  word — too  rapt 
to  invade  the  interesting  silence. 

Maxwell  had  worn  the  air  of  a  demi-god 
when  he  rose.  A  wave  of  self-conscious- 
ness doubtless  obliterated  the  introductory 
phrases  which  he  had  learned  by  heart,  for 
after  a  moment's  painful  silence  he  sud- 
denly blurted  out : 

"I'm  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  and 
I  want  you  all  to  know  it." 

Here  was  the  kernel  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter. What  better  could  he  have  said? 
What  more  was  there  left  to  say?  The 
riddle  was  solved,  and  the  suspense  which 
had  hung  over  Westfield  like  a  cloud  for 
[46] 


THE    ORCHID 


many  months  was  dissolved  in  a  rainbow 
of  romance.  There  was  no  need  of  names ; 
everybody  understood,  and  a  shout  of  de- 
light followed.  Every  woman  in  the  room 
shrieked  her  congratulations  to  the  bride- 
to-be,  and  those  nearest  her  got  possession 
of  her  person.  Miss  Peggy  Blake  was  the 
nearest  and  hence  the  first. 

"You  dear  thing!  It's  just  splendid; 
the  most  intensely  exciting  thing  which 
ever  happened!"  she  cried,  throwing  her 
arms  around  Lydia's  neck.  In  the  embrace 
her  hair,  which  had  become  loose  during 
the  run,  fell  about  her  ears,  and  Guy  Perry 
had  to  get  down  on  his  knees  to  find  the 
gilt  hair-pins.  There  was  a  babel  of  super- 
latives, and  delirious  feminine  laughter; 
the  men  wrung  the  happy  lover's  hands  or 
patted  him  on  the  back. 

When  the  turmoil  subsided  Maxwell 
[47] 


THE    ORCHID 


was  still  standing.  Like  St.  Michael  over 
the  prostrate  dragon,  he  had  planted  his 
feet  securely  for  once  in  his  life  on  the 
necks  of  the  serpents  Diffidence  and  Re- 
pression. He  put  out  his  hand  to  invite 
silence. 

"I  ask  you  to  drink  to  the  happiness  of 
the  loveliest  woman  in  creation.  When  a 
man  worships  a  woman  as  I  do  her,  and 
she  has  done  him  the  honor  to  plight  him 
her  troth,  why  shouldn't  he  bear  witness  to 
his  love  and  blazon  her  charms  and  virtues 
to  the  stars?  God  knows  I'm  going  to 
make  her  happy,  if  I  can!  To  the  happi- 
ness of  my  future  wife,  Miss  Lydia 
Arnold!" 

"All  up!"  cried  the  master,  and  as  the 
company  rose  under  the  spell  of  love's  fer- 
vid invocation,  he  added  authoritatively, 
"No  heel  taps!" 

[48] 


THE    ORCHID 


As  they  drained  their  glasses  and  were 
in  the  act  of  sitting  down,  Guy  Perry  con- 
veyed the  cordial  sentiment  of  all  present 
toward  the  proposer  of  the  toast  and  lover- 
elect  by  beginning  to  troll, 

For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow — 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow. 

Under  cover  of  the  swelling  song  Mrs. 
Walter  Cole,  fluttering  in  her  seat,  and 
with  her  eyes  fastened  on  Lydia's  counte- 
nance, felt  the  need  of  taking  Gerald 
Marcy  into  her  confidence. 

"I  just  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  it. 
His  letting  himself  go  like  that  is  rather 
nice;  but  it  isn't  at  all  in  her  style.  If  she 
is  truly  in  love  with  him,  it  doesn't  matter. 
But  there  she  sits  with  that  inscrutable 
smile,  perfectly  serene,  but  not  in  the  least 
[49] 


THE    ORCHID 


worked  up,  apparently.  Our  embraces 
didn't  even  ruffle  her  hair." 

"He  has  been  repressing  himself — been 
on  his  good  behavior  for  years,  poor  fel- 
low," murmured  Marcy. 

"I  tell  you  I  like  his  calling  her  the  love- 
liest woman  in  creation  and  thinking  it. 
Such  guileless  fervor  is  much  too  rare  now- 
adays. But  what  effect  will  it  have  on 
Lydia,  who  knows  she  isn't?  That  is  what 
is  troubling  me.  Unless  she  is  deeply  smit- 
ten, won't  it  bore  her?" 

The  question  was  but  the  echo  of  her 
spirit's  wonder;  she  did  not  expect  a  cate- 
gorical response.  Whatever  good  thing 
Gerald  Marcy  was  meditating  in  reply  was 
nipped  in  the  bud  by  an  appeal  to  him  for 
"Aunt  Dinah's  Quilting  Party"  as  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  outburst  of  song.  He  felt 
obliged  to  comply,  and  yet  was  nothing 
[50] 


THE    ORCHID 


loth,  as  it  was  one  of  the  most  popular  in 
his  repertory,  and  was  adapted  to  his  sweet 
if  somewhat  spavined  tenor  voice. 

In  the  skies  the  bright  stars  glittered, 
On  the  bank  the  pale  moon  shone, 
And  'twas  from  Aunt  Dinah's  quilting  party 
I  was  seeing  Nellie  home. 

So  he  sang  with  melodious  precision,  ac- 
companying his  performance  with  that 
slight  exaggeration  of  chivalric  manner 
which  distinguished  the  rendering  of  his 
ditties.  The  words  just  suited  the  sensibil- 
ities of  the  company,  combining  feeling 
with  banter,  and  in  full-voiced  unison  they 
caught  up  the  refrain : 

I  was  seeing  Nellie  ho-o-me — 
I  was  seeing  Nellie  ho-o-me, 
And  'twas  from  Aunt  Dinah's  quilting  party 
I  was  seeing  Nellie  home. 


THE    ORCHID 


Laughing  feminine  eyes  shot  merry 
glances  in  the  direction  of  Lydia,  and  the 
red-coated  sportsmen  lifted  their  glasses  in 
grandiloquent  apostrophe  of  the  affianced 
pair.  Andrew  Cunningham,  resplendent  in 
a  canary-colored  waistcoat  with  fine  red 
bars,  was  heard  to  remark  confidentially, 
after  ordering  another  whiskey  and  soda, 
that  the  festivities  which  were  certain  to 
follow  in  the  wake  of  this  engagement 
would  add  five  pounds  to  his  weight,  which 
it  had  taken  him  two  months  of  Spartan 
abstemiousness  to  reduce  three. 

Erect  and  sportsmanlike,  Gerald  con- 
tinued, after  an  impressive  sweep  of  his 
hand  to  promote  silence: 

On  my  arm  her  light  hand  rested, 
Rested  light  as  o-o-cean's  foam, 
And  'twas  from  Aunt  Dinah's  quilting  party 
I  was  seeing  Nellie  home. 
[52] 


THE    ORCHID 


It  was  a  red-letter  day  not  only  for  the 
master  of  the  hounds  but  for  Westfield's 
entire  colony.  Conjecture  was  at  an  end; 
the  love-god  had  triumphed;  the  announce- 
ment was  a  fitting  wind-up  to  the  exhilarat- 
ing hunting  season.  Yet  amid  the  general 
congratulation  and  optimism  some  phil- 
osophic souls  like  Mrs.  Walter  Cole  did 
not  forbear  to  wonder  what  was  to  be  the 
sequel. 


[53] 


Ill 

PRECISE  consideration  by  Lydia  of  her 
feelings  for  her  betrothed — and  presently 
her  husband,  as  they  were  married  in  the 
following  January — were  rendered  super- 
fluous for  the  time  being  by  the  worship 
which  he  lavished  upon  her.  There  were 
so  many  other  things  to  think  of:  first  her 
engagement  ring,  which  called  forth  ejacu- 
lations of  envious  admiration  from  her 
contemporaries;  then  her  trousseau,  the 
costumes  of  her  bridesmaids,  the  details  of 
the  ceremony  and  the  wedding  breakfast, 
and  the  important  question  whether  the 
honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  in  Europe. 
There  was  never  any  doubt  as  to  this  in 
Lydia's  mind.  After  deliberation  she  had 
[54] 


THE    ORCHID 


decided  on  a  winter  passage  by  the  Med- 
iterranean route  to  Nice  and  Cannes,  fol- 
lowed by  a  summer  in  the  Tyrol  and 
Switzerland,  with  a  fortnight  in  Paris  to 
repair  the  ravages  in  her  wardrobe  made 
by  changing  fashion.  It  must  not  be  un- 
derstood that  Maxwell  demurred  to  this 
attractive  programme.  He  merely  inti- 
mated that  if  he  remained  at  home  and 
demonstrated  what  he  called  his  serious 
side,  he  would  probably  receive  a  nomina- 
tion for  the  Legislature  in  the  autumn; 
that  the  party  managers  had  predicted  as 
much;  and  that  the  favorable  introduction 
into  politics  thus  obtained  might  lead  to 
Congress  or  a  foreign  mission,  as  he  had 
the  means  to  live  up  to  either  position 
worthily. 

Lydia  listened  alertly.     "I  should  like 
you  to  go  as  ambassador  to  Paris  or  Lon- 
[551 


THE    ORCHID 


don  some  day,  of  course,  but  to  serve  in 
the  Legislature  now  would  scarcely  con- 
duce to  that,  Herbert.  I've  set  my  heart 
on  going  abroad — I've  never  been  but 
once,  you  know — and  it's  just  the  time  to 
go  when  we  are  building  our  two  houses. 
Where  should  we  live  if  we  stayed  at 
home?  The  sensible  plan  is  to  store  our 
presents,  buy  some  tapestries  and  old  fur- 
niture on  the  other  side,  and  come  back  in 
time  to  get  the  autumn  hunting  at  West- 
field  and  inaugurate  our  two  establish- 
ments." 

This  settled  the  matter.  The  only  real 
uncertainty  had  been  whether  she  did  not 
prefer  a  trip  around  the  world  instead. 
But  that  would  take  too  long.  She  was 
eager  to  figure  as  the  mistress  of  the  most 
stately  modern  mansion  and  the  most  con- 
summate country  house  which  money  and 
[56] 


THE    ORCHID 


architectural  genius  could  erect.  -  These 
two  houses  were  perhaps  the  most  engross- 
ing of  all  among  the  many  concerns  which 
led  her  to  postpone  precise  analysis  of  her 
feelings  to  a  period  of  greater  leisure. 
That  is  the  exact  quality  of  her  love — 
whether  it  were  eighteen  carat  or  not,  to 
adopt  a  simile  suggested  to  her  by  her 
wedding-ring.  That  she  loved  Herbert 
sufficiently  well  to  marry  him  was  the  es- 
sential point;  and  it  seemed  futile  to  play 
hide-and-seek  with  her  own  consciousness 
over  the  abstract  proposition  whether  she 
could  have  loved  someone  else  better,  es- 
pecially as  there  were  so  many  immediately 
pressing  matters  to  consider  that  both  her 
physician  and  Herbert  had  warned  her  she 
was  liable,  if  not  prudent,  to  fall  a  victim 
to  that  lurking  ailment,  nervous  prostra- 
tion. 

[57] 


THE    ORCHID 


It  was  certainly  no  slight  responsibility 
to  select  the  lot  in  town  which  seemed  to 
combine  most  advantages  as  the  site  for  a 
residence.  The  matter  of  the  country 
house  was  much  simpler,  for  who  could 
doubt  that  the  ideal  location  was  an  ex- 
panse of  undulating  country,  higher  than 
the  rest  of  the  neighborhood,  known  as 
Norrey's  Farm?  These  fifty  acres,  with 
woods  appurtenant,  were  reputed  to  be  out 
of  the  market  unless  to  a  single  purchaser. 
Many  a  pioneer  had  picked  out  Norrey's 
Knoll  as  his  choice,  only  to  be  thwarted  by 
the  owner  with  the  assertion  that  he  must 
buy  the  whole  farm  or  could  have  none. 
Later  would-be  purchasers  had  recoiled  be- 
fore the  price,  which  had  kept  not  merely 
abreast  but  had  galloped  ahead  of  current 
valuations,  until  it  had  become  a  by-word 
in  the  colony  that  Farmer  Norrey  would 
[58] 


THE    ORCHID 


bite  his  own  nose  off  if  he  were  not  careful. 
But  the  shrewd  rustic  was  more  than  vin- 
dicated by  the  upshot.  Lydia,  from  the 
moment  when  she  first  seriously  thought  of 
Herbert  Maxwell  as  a  husband,  had  cast 
sheeps'  eyes  at  this  stately  property,  and 
within  a  short  period  after  the  engagement 
was  announced  the  title  deeds  passed. 
Rumor  declared  that  the  canny  grantor 
had  divined  that  the  opportunity  of  his  life 
was  at  hand  and  had  held  out  successfully 
for  still  higher  figures.  But,  as  everybody 
cheerfully  remarked,  ten  thousand  dollars 
more  or  less  was  but  a  flea-bite  to  Herbert 
Maxwell. 

Then  came  the  selection  of  the  archi- 
tects and  divers  inspections  of  plans  for 
the  two  establishments,  which,  to  the  joy  of 
the  bridegroom,  were  interrupted  by  the 
wedding  ceremony.  They  sailed,  and  their 
[59] 


THE    ORCHID 


honeymoon  was  somewhat  of  a  social 
parade.  Special  quarters — the  most  expen- 
sive and  exclusive  to  be  had — were  en- 
gaged for  them  in  advance  on  steamships 
and  in  railroad  trains,  in  hotels  and  wher- 
ever they  appeared.  Maxwell's  manifest 
tender  purpose  was  to  gratify  his  bride's 
slightest  whim,  and  in  regard  to  the  choice 
of  the  objects  on  which  his  ready  money 
was  to  be  lavished  he  avoided  taking  the 
initiative  except  when  an  occasional  mania 
seized  him  to  buy  her  costly  gems  on  the 
sly.  Otherwise  he  danced  attendance  on 
her  taste,  which  was  discriminating  and 
perspicuous.  Lydia  yearned  for  distinction, 
not  extravagance;  for  superlative  effects, 
not  garishness.  Her  eye  was  on  the  look- 
out in  regard  to  all  the  affairs  of  life,  from 
food  to  the  manifestations  of  art,  for  the 
note  which  accurately  expressed  elegant 
[60] 


THE    ORCHID 


and  fastidious  comfort  and  gave  the  rebuff 
to  e very-day  results  or  the  antics  of  vul- 
garity. 

Consequently  the  wedding  trip  after 
the  first  surprises  was  but  a  change  of 
scene.  There  were  still  too  many  absorp- 
tions for  retrospective  thought  and  nice 
balancing  of  soul  accounts.  At  Nice  and 
Cannes  they  found  themselves  in  a  vortex 
of  small  gayeties.  While  travelling,  Lydia 
was  on  the  alert  to  pick  up  old  tapestries, 
porcelain,  and  other  works  of  art;  in  Paris, 
shopping  and  the  dressmakers  left  no  time 
for  anything  but  a  daily  lesson  to  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  her  French.  She  had 
said  to  herself  that  she  would  draw  a  trial 
balance  of  her  precise  emotions  when  she 
was  at  rest  on  the  steamer — for  Lydia  by 
instinct  was  a  methodical  person;  but  a 
batch  of  letters  reciting  complications  in 
[61] 


THE    ORCHID 


regard  to  the  last  details  on  the  new  houses 
was  a  fresh  distraction,  and  the  society  of 
several  engaging  men  on  the  ship  another. 
Nevertheless  the  thought  that  she  was 
nearing  home  struck  her  fancy  favorably, 
and  on  the  evening  before  they  landed  she 
eluded  everybody  else  to  seize  her  hus- 
band's arm  for  a  promenade  on  deck. 
There  was  elasticity  in  her  step  as  she  said, 
"Won't  it  be  fun  to  be  at  Westfield  again, 
Herbert?  I  long  for  a  good  run  with  the 
hounds,  and  I'm  beginning  to  pine  for  the 
autumn  colors  and  smells." 

"Yes,  indeed.  And  we  shall  be  settled  at 
our  own  fireside  at  last,"  he  answered  with 
a  lover's  animation. 

The  remark  recalled  bothersome  consid- 
erations to  Lydia's  mind.  She  felt  sure 
from  the  contents  of  the  last  packet  of  cor- 
respondence that  the  architect  had  failed 
[62] 


THE    ORCHID 


to  carry  out  her  instructions  in  several  in- 
stances. 

"Settled?"  she  echoed.  "If  we  are  set- 
tled a  year  from  now  we  may  consider  our- 
selves very  fortunate." 

Lydia's  immediate  plans  met  with  inter- 
ruption from  an  unexpected  source.  Be- 
fore the  hunting  season  had  fairly  begun  it 
was  privately  whispered  in  Westfield  cir- 
cles that  a  stork  would  presently  visit  the 
new  establishment  on  Norrey's  Farm. 
Open  inquiries  from  tactless  interrogators, 
why  the  Maxwells  did  not  follow  the 
hounds,  were  answered  by  the  explanation 
that  the  young  people  had  so  many  matters 
to  attend  to  in  connection  with  their  two 
houses  that  they  had  decided  to  postpone 
hunting  to  another  year.  Later  it  was 
known  that  they  would  pass  the  winter  in 
the  country,  and  not  furnish  the  town  house 
[63] 


THE    ORCHID 


until  spring.  When  the  baby  was  actually 
born,  in  February,  everyone  knew  that  it 
was  expected;  but  the  advent  of  the 
infant  in  the  flesh  caused  a  flutter  among 
Lydia's  immediate  feminine  acquaintances. 
As  soon  as  the  mother  was  able  to  receive 
visitors,  Mrs.  Walter  Cole  came  down 
from  town  to  offer  her  warm  felicitations 
and  incidentally  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
those  who  took  an  interest.  She  had  ar- 
ranged to  lunch  after  the  interview  with  the 
Andrew  Cunninghams,  who  lived  all  the 
year  round  at  Westfield,  and  thither  at  the 
close  of  the  visit  to  her  intimate  friend  she 
repaired,  replete  with  information.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  Saturday,  and  the  master  of 
the  house  had  brought  down  Gerald  Marcy 
by  an  early  train  for  a  winter's  afternoon 
tramp  across  country,  so  that  the  two 
women  had  only  a  few  minutes  of  unre- 
served conversation. 

[64] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Well,  she  was  just  as  one  would 
have  expected — Lydia  all  over,"  Mrs. 
Cole  began  with  the  intensity  of  a  pent-up 
stream  which  has  regained  its  freedom. 
"She  looked  sweet,  and  everything  in 
her  room  and  in  the  nursery  was  bewitch- 
ing, as  though  she  had  been  preparing 
for  the  event  for  years  and  doted  on  it. 
That's  just  like  her,  of  course.  She  be- 
moaned her  fate  at  losing  the  hunting  sea- 
son, and  she  has  decided  not  to  nurse  the 
baby.  As  an  experienced  mother,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Cole  contemplatively,  "I  felt 
bound  to  remind  her  that  there  are  two 
sides  to  that  question,  and  that  I  had 
nursed  Toto  and  Jim  not  only  because 
Walter  insisted  on  it,  but  to  give  the 
children  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  as  to  any 
possible  effect  on  character  from  being 
suckled  by  a  stranger.  But  she  had 
thought  it  all  out,  and  had  her  arguments 
[65] 


THE    ORCHID 


at  her  fingers'  ends.  She  declared  it  a  case 
of  Anglo-Saxon  prejudice,  and  that  every 
Frenchwoman  of  position  sends  her  babies 
to  a  foster-mother.  Of  course  it  is  a  both- 
er, and  frightfully  confining,  but  my  hus- 
band wouldn't  hear  of  it,  though  half  the 
mamas  can't  satisfy  their  babies  anyway." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  nodded  understand- 
ingly.  "I  daresay  it's  just  as  well.  And 
of  course  she  regards  the  rest  of  us  as  old- 
fashioned.  But  tell  me  about  the  baby." 

Mrs.  Cole  laughed.  "You  ought  to 
have  heard  Lydia  on  the  subject.  She 
talks  of  it  in  the  most  impersonal  way,  as 
though  it  belonged  to  someone  else  or 
were  a  wedding  present.  I  never  cared 
much  for  babies  before  I  was  married,  but 
could  not  endure  anyone  who  wouldn't 
make  flattering  speeches  about  mine. 
Lydia's  is  a  dear  little  thing  as  they  go, 
[66] 


THE    ORCHID 


and  has  a  fascinating  wardrobe  already, 
and  I  think  she  is  rather  devoted  to  it  in 
her  secret  soul,  but  one  of  the  first  things 
she  said  to  me — before  I  could  get  in  a 
single  compliment — was,  'She's  the  living 
image  of  Grandma  Maxwell,  Fannie.  She 
has  her  mouth  and  nose.'  And  the  embar- 
rassing part  was  that  it's  true.  The  mo- 
ment Lydia  called  my  attention  to  it  I 
saw.  Her  eagle  maternal  eye  had  detected 
what  the  ordinary  mother  would  have 
failed  to  perceive.  But  it's  Grandma  Max- 
well to  the  life.  'Why  evade  the  truth?' 
remarked  Lydia  after  one  of  her  deliberate 
pauses.  'I  shall  name  her  for  her,  and  I 
can  discern  in  advance  that  she  will  never 
be  a  social  success.'  " 

"Poor   little   thing!"   murmured   Mrs. 
Cunningham.     Such  an  anathema  so  early 
in  life  was  certainly  heart-rending. 
[67] 


THE    ORCHID 


Mrs.  Cole  put  her  head  on  one  side  like 
an  arch  bird  by  way  of  reflective  protest. 
"It  sounds  dreadful,  of  course,  but  remem- 
ber she's  Lydia.  What  she  will  really  do 
will  be  to  metamorphose  her,  body  and 
soul,  so  that  by  the  time  she  is  eighteen 
there  will  not  be  one  trace  of  Maxwell  visi- 
ble to  the  naked  eye.  See  if  I'm  not  right," 
she  said  with  the  gusto  of  a  brilliant  in- 
spiration which  seemed  to  her  a  logical  de- 
fence of  her  friend. 

The  arrival  of  the  men  interrupted  the 
dialogue,  but  the  general  topic  was  pres- 
ently resumed  from  another  point  of  view. 
Not  many  minutes  had  elapsed  after  they 
sat  down  to  luncheon  before  Gerald  Marcy 
hazarded  the  observation  that,  prophecies 
and  innuendoes  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing, events  in  the  Maxwell  household 
appeared  to  have  followed  the  course  of 
[68] 


THE    ORCHID 


nature.  Mrs.  Cole,  to  whom  this  remark 
was  directly  addressed,  ignored  the  sly  im- 
peachment of  her  abilities  as  a  seer,  and, 
having  finished  her  piece  of  buttered  toast, 
said  blandly : 

"I  think  Lydia  is  very  happy." 

"I  felt  sure  she  would  be  tamed,"  con- 
tinued Marcy  with  a  tug  at  his  mustache. 
"I  look  to  see  her  become  a  model  of  the 
domestic  virtues." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  that  she  is  tamed, 
Gerald,"  said  Mrs.  Cunningham.  "Lydia 
is  Lydia."  Perhaps  the  knowledge  that 
she  had  been  longing  in  vain  for  years  for 
a  child  of  her  own  gave  the  cue  to  this 
slightly  brusk  comment. 

"Lydia  will  never  be  exactly  like  the  rest 
of  us;  that's  her  peculiarity — virtue — what 
shall  I  call  it?"  interposed  Mrs.  Cole,  look- 
ing round  the  table  with  a  philosophic  air. 
[69] 


THE    ORCHID 


"The  rest  of  us  demur  at  conventions,  but 
accept  them  in  the  end.  She  follows  what 
she  deems  the  truth.  I  don't  say  that  she 
is  always  right  or  that  she  doesn't  do  queer 
things,"  she  added  by  way  of  conservative 
qualification  of  her  bubbling  encomium. 

"And  how  about  Maxwell?"  asked 
Andrew  Cunningham,  who  had  seemed 
temporarily  lost  in  the  contemplation  of 
his  lobster  salad  so  long  as  any  of  that 
lusciously  prepared  viand  remained  on  his 
plate.  "Infatuated  as  ever,  I  suppose,"  he 
added,  sitting  back  in  his  chair  and  expos- 
ing benignly  his  broad  expanse  of  neck- 
cloth and  fancy  check  waistcoat. 

"Yes,  and  he  ought  to  be,  surely.  But 
Lydia  has  a  rival  in  the  daughter  of  the 
house,"  answered  Mrs.  Cole,  reinspired  by 
the  inquiry.  "He  came  in  just  as  I  was 
leaving,  and  is  almost  daft  on  the  subject 


THE    ORCHID 


of  the  baby.  If  Lydia's  ecstasy  is  some- 
what below  the  normal,  he  more  than 
makes  up  for  the  deficiency.  There  never 
was  such  a  proud  parent.  He  just  'chortled 
in  his  joy.'  He  discerns  in  her  already  all 
the  graces  and  virtues,  and  would  like  to 
do  something  at  once — he  doesn't  know 
exactly  what — to  bring  them  to  the  atten- 
tion of  an  unappreciative  world.  If  it  were 
a  boy,  he  -could  put  his  name  down  on  the 
waiting  lists  at  the  clubs,  but  as  she  is  only 
a  girl,  he  must  content  himself  with  hang- 
ing over  her  crib  for  the  present." 

"Only  a  girl!"  echoed  Marcy.  "Born 
with  a  golden  spoon  in  her  mouth,  an 
heiress  to  all  the  virtues  and  graces,  and 
predestined  doubtless,  like  her  mother,  to 
rest  her  dainty  foot  upon  the  neck  of  man. 
Nevertheless,  as  I  have  already  prophe- 
sied, I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  yoke 

[71] 


THE    ORCHID 


— now  a  double  yoke — will  not  bear  too 
severely  on  Maxwell,  though  it  may  not 
yield  him  the  bliss  which  we  unregenerate 
bachelors  are  wont  to  associate  with  the 
ideal  marital  relation." 

"Hear — hear!"  exclaimed  Andrew  Cun- 
ningham. "You  need  some  further  liquid 
refreshment  after  that  silver-tongued  soph- 
istry, Gerald. — Mary,"  he  said  to  the 
maid,  "pass  the  whiskey  and  soda  to  Mr. 
Marcy." 

Mrs.  Cole  put  her  head  on  one  side.  "I 
have  my  doubts  whether  the  ideal  marital 
relation  is  a  modern  social  possibility — the 
strictly  ideal  such  as  you  bachelors  mean," 
she  added,  feeling,  doubtless,  as  the  wife  of 
a  man  to  whom  she  had  described  herself 
in  heart-to-heart  talks  with  other  women — 
not  many,  for  she  eschewed  the  subject 
ordinarily  as  sacred — as  deeply  attached, 
[72] 


THE    ORCHID 


that  this  homily  on  wedlock  needed  a  quali- 
fying tag. 

But  May  Cunningham  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  become  a  party  to  even  so  tem- 
pered an  imputation  on  connubial  happi- 
ness. "Speak  for  yourself,  Fannie,"  she 
said  sturdily.  "Ideals  or  no  ideals,  Andrew 
and  I  trot  in  double  harness  better  than  any 
single  animal  of  my  acquaintance." 

"Listen  to  the  old  woman,  God  bless 
her!"  exclaimed  the  master  of  the  house, 
raising  his  tumbler  and  smiling  at  his  bet- 
ter-half with  chivalrous  expansiveness. 

Mrs.  Cole  was  a  little  nettled  at  Mrs. 
Cunningham's  obtuseness — wilful  obtuse- 
ness,  it  seemed  to  her.  As  though  the 
subtle  social  problem  suggested  by  her 
was  to  be  solved  by  a  reference  to  the 
homely  affection  of  this  amiable  but  lim- 
ited couple!  She  sighed  and  murmured, 
[73] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Everyone  knows,  my  dear,  that  you  and 
Andrew  are  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long. 
But  I'm  afraid  that  you  don't  understand 
exactly  what  I  meant." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  compressed  her  lips 
ominously.  She  felt  that  she  understood 
perfectly  well,  and  that  it  was  simply  an- 
other case  of  Fannie  Cole's  nonsense.  But 
any  retort  she  may  have  been  meditating 
was  averted  by  the  timely  and  genial  in- 
spiration of  her  husband. 

"One  thing  is  certain,"  he  said:  "we  all 
know  that  our  Gerald  is  the  ideal  bach- 
elor." 

This  assertion  called  forth  cordial  ac- 
quiescence from  both  the  ladies,  and  turned 
the  current  of  the  conversation  into  a 
smoother  channel.  The  subject  of  the 
remark  bowed  decorously. 

"In  this  company  I  am  free  to  admit 
[74] 


THE    ORCHID 


that  I  sometimes  sigh  in  secret  for  a  happy 
home.  Yet  even  venerable  bachelorhood 
has  its  compensations.  By  the  way,"  he 
added,  "our  colony  at  Westfield  is  likely 
to  have  an  addition  to  its  stud  of  bache- 
lors. I  hear  that  Harry  Spencer  is  com- 
ing home." 

"Harry  Spencer?  How  interesting," 
cried  the  two  women  in  the  same  breath. 

"The  fascinator,"  continued  Mrs.  Cole 
with  slow,  sardonic  articulation. 

"To  break  some  other  woman's  heart,  I 
suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Cunningham. 

"And  yet  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  will 
be  received  with  open  arms  by  your  entire 
sex,  including  the  present  company,"  re- 
marked Gerald  with  a  tug  at  his  mustache. 

The  sally  was  received  with  pensive 
silence  as  a  deduction  apparently  not  to  be 
gainsaid. 

[75] 


THE    ORCHID 


"He  is  very  agreeable,"  said  Mrs.  Cun- 
ningham flatly. 

"And  extremely  handsome,"  said  Mrs. 
Cole.  "Not  the  type  of  manly  beauty  which 
would  cause  my  mature  heart  to  flutter, 
but  dangerous  to  the  youthful  imagination. 
He  used  to  look  like  a  handsome  pirate, 
and  if  he  had  whispered  honeyed  words  to 
me  instead  of  to  Laura — who  knows?" 

"Poor  Laura !" 

"They  had  neither  of  them  a  cent;  there 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  withdraw. 
And  yet  there  is  no  doubt  he  broke  her 
heart,  though  there  is  consumption  in  her 
family."  Mrs.  Cole  knit  her  brows  over 
this  attempt  on  her  part  to  formulate  com- 
plete justice. 

"He's  a  woman's  man,"  said  Andrew 
Cunningham.  He  had  stepped  to  the  man- 
tel-piece to  fill  his  pipe,  and  having  uttered 
[76] 


THE    ORCHID 


this  fell  speech,  he  lit  it  and  smoked  for 
some  moments  in  silence  with  his  back  to 
the  cheerful  wood  fire  before  proceeding. 
No  one  had  seen  fit  to  contradict  him.  The 
gaps  between  his  assertions  and  the  sub- 
sequent explanations  thereof  were  expected 
and  rarely  interrupted.  "  He  does  every- 
thing well — rides,  shoots,  plays  rackets, 
golf,  cards — is  infernally  good-looking,  as 
you  say,  has  a  pat  speech  and  a  flattering 
eye  for  every  woman  he  looks  at,  and  yet 
somehow  he  has  always  struck  me  as  a 
poseur.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  in  a  tight 
place,  though  he  prides  himself  on  his 
sporting  blood.  It  may  be  prejudice  on  my 
part.  Gerald  likes  him,  I  believe,  because 
he  is  a  keen  rider  and  always  has  a  good 
mount.  He  always  has  the  best  of  every- 
thing going,  but  what  does  he  live  on 
anyway?" 

[77] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Wild  oats,  perhaps,"  suggested  Marcy. 
But  he  hastened  to  atone  for  this  levity  by 
adding,  "He  had  a  little  money  from  his 
mother,  while  it  lasted,  and  just  after  he 
and  Miss  Wilford  drifted  apart,  I  am  told 
that  he  followed  a  tip  from  Guy  Perry  on 
copper  stocks  and  cleaned  up  enough  to 
enable  him  to  travel  round  the  world." 

"Poor  Laura  I"  interjected  Mrs.  Cole. 
"What  a  pity  he  didn't  get  a  tip  earlier!" 

"It  wasn't  enough  to  marry  on,"  said 
Marcy,  "and  it's  probably  mostly  gone 
by  this  time." 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  complain 
of,"  exclaimed  Cunningham.  "I'm  no 
martinet  in  morals,  Heaven  knows,  but  I 
always  feel  a  little  on  my  guard  with  fel- 
lows who  live  by  their  wits  and  spend  like 
princes.  Confound  it,  you  know  it  isn't 
quite  respectable  even  in  a  free  country." 
[78] 


THE    ORCHID 


Andrew  spoke  with  a  wag  of  his  head  as 
though  he  expected  to  be  adjudged  an  old 
fogy  for  this  conservative  utterance. 

"He's  an  attractive  fellow  on  the  sur- 
face anyway,"  answered  Marcy  after  a 
pause,  "and  will  be  an  addition  from  the 
hunting  standpoint.  And — give  the  devil 
his  due,  Andrew — if  he  was  looking  for 
money  only,  there  were  several  heiresses  he 
might  have  married.  That  would  have 
made  him  irreproachable  at  once." 

Mrs.  Cole  drew  a  long  breath.  "Per- 
fectly true,  Mr.  Marcy.  I  never  thought 
of  it  before.  Harry  Spencer  doesn't  look 
at  a  woman  twice  unless  he  admires  her, 
no  matter  how  rich  she  is.  He  could  have 
married  several,  of  course,  if  he  had  tried." 

"Dozens.  That's  the  humiliating  part 
of  it,"  assented  Mrs.  Cunningham. 

"When  he  is  ready  to  settle  down  that's 
[79] 


THE    ORCHID 


what  he'll  do — pick  out  some  woman  with 
barrels  of  money,"  said  Andrew.  Having 
once  got  a  proposition  in  his  head  he  was 
wont  to  stick  to  it  tenaciously,  like  a  puppy 
to  a  root. 

"You  misjudge  him — you  misjudge 
him !"  cried  Mrs.  Cole  eagerly.  "He  won't 
do  anything  of  the  kind.  He  will  never 
marry  any  woman  unless  she  has  money — 
or  he  has;  that  I'm  ready  to  admit.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  he'll  never  ask  anyone 
to  marry  him  unless  he  loves  her  for  her- 
self alone,  and — and,"  she  continued  with 
a  gasp  born  of  the  thrill  which  the  definite- 
ness  of  her  insight  caused  her,  "there  are 
very  few  women  in  the  world  whom  he  is 
liable  to  fall  in  love  with.  That's  what 
makes  him  so  interesting.  He  is  polite  to 
us  all,  but  the  majority  of  women  bore  him 
at  heart." 

[80] 


THE    ORCHID 


Marcy  laughed.  "A  masterly  diagno- 
sis," he  said.  "And  now  that  he  has  seen 
the  world  and  is  returning  heart-free,  so 
far  as  we  know,  there  will  naturally  be 
curiosity  as  to  how  he  will  bear  the  ordeal 
of  a  fresh  contact  with  native  loveliness." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  two  women  together, 
and  with  an  engaging  frankness  which 
quite  overshadowed  the  grunt  by  which 
the  master  of  the  house  indicated  his  sus- 
picious dissent  from  this  exposition  of 
character. 


[81] 


IV 

HARRY  SPENCER  had  been  travelling 
nearly  three  years.  Naturally,  he  found 
some  changes  and  some  new  faces  at  West- 
field.  Concerning  the  former  he  was  be- 
comingly appreciative.  He  promptly 
ranged  himself  on  the  side  of  progress,  ad- 
mired the  new  club-house  and  the  new 
establishments  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
evinced  a  willingness  to  take  an  active  part 
in  the  enlarged  energies  of  the  club.  Dur- 
ing his  peregrinations  in  foreign  lands  he 
had  visited  the  St.  Andrew's  golf  links,  and 
he  had  views  regarding  bunkers  and  other 
features  of  the  game  which  he  was  pre- 
pared to  advocate.  When  he  had  left 
home  the  bicycle  was  all  the  rage,  and 
[82] 


THE    ORCHID 


some  portion  of  his  journeyings  had  been 
on  an  up-to-date  machine.  But  he  found 
now  that  the  fashionable  portion  of  the 
community  had  dropped  this  craze,  and 
that  to  ride  a  "wheel"  was  beginning  to  be 
considered  a  bore  except  as  a  means  of  get- 
ting from  one  place  to  another.  The  fever 
of  golf  was  rampant  instead,  and  had 
reached  the  stage  where  its  votaries  were 
almost  delirious  in  their  devotion,  notably 
the  people  most  unfitted  to  play  the  game, 
and  who  had  taken  it  up  in  order  to  be  in 
fashion.  During  the  spring  and  summer 
following  his  return  the  improved  links  at 
Westfield  was  crowded  with  players  of 
every  grade  whose  proficiency  was  gener- 
ally in  reverse  proportion  to  the  number  of 
clubs  they  carried. 

Soon  after  the  season  had  fairly  opened 
and  the  greens  were  in  good  order  the 
[83] 


THE    ORCHID 


lately  returned  wanderer  found  himself  one 
morning  engaged  in  giving  a  lesson  in  the 
royal  and  ancient  game  to  Miss  Peggy 
Blake,  who  had  a  severe  attack  of  the 
disease  and  promised  to  be  a  proficient 
pupil,  for  Dobson,  the  professional  at  the 
Hunt  Club,  had  declared  that  she  had  a 
free  swing  and  could  follow  through  as 
well  as  most  men.  The  trouble  at  the  mo- 
ment was  that,  after  taking  a  free  swing, 
she  either  failed  to  hit  the  ball  altogether 
or  hit  it  off  at  some  distressing  angle. 
As  she  explained  volubly  to  everybody,  un- 
til within  a  week  she  had  been  making 
screaming  brassie  shots  which  carried  a 
hundred  and  fifty  yards,  but  had  suddenly 
lost  her  game  completely.  Harry  had 
kindly  offered  himself  as  a  coach,  a  de- 
lightful proposition  to  the  blithe  young 
woman,  especially  as  Dobson  was  engaged 
[84] 


THE    ORCHID 


for  the  time  being  in  superintending  the 
primary  and  elephantine  efforts  of  Miss 
Ella  Marbury,  the  stout  maiden  sister  of 
Wagner  Marbury,  the  Western  multi-mil- 
lionnaire  and  proprietor  of  one  of  the  new 
neighboring  palaces  so  obnoxious  to  Mrs. 
Cunningham.  Miss  Peggy  was  more  than 
pleased  to  have  for  an  hour  or  two  the 
uninterrupted  companionship  of  this  good- 
looking  and  redoubtable  gallant,  whose  at- 
tentions were  to  be  regarded  as  a  feather 
in  her  cap,  and  who  would  doubtless  be 
able  to  tell  her  what  she  was  doing  wrong. 
Hers  was  one  of  the  new  faces,  and 
Harry  had  given  his  following  to  under- 
stand that  he  admired  her  spirited  and 
comely  personality.  "Miss  West  Wind" 
he  had  christened  her  genially,  and  the 
epithet  had  spread  with  the  rumor  that  he 
had  noticed  her.  Yet  it  was  tacitly  under- 
[85] 


THE    ORCHID 


stood  that  he  had  no  intention  of  interfer- 
ing with  the  suit  of  his  friend  Guy  Perry, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  well  in  the  lead  of 
the  other  pursuers  of  the  breezy  maiden. 
Yet,  though  he  sought  to  give  the  impres- 
sion that  his  favor  in  this  case  was  merely 
an  artistic  tribute  and  that  he  still  walked 
scatheless  in  the  world  of  women,  he  was 
glad  of  an  opportunity  to  stroll  over  the 
links  in  her  society.  She  would  entertain 
him.  Besides,  she  was  a  fluent  talker,  and 
he  could  count  on  her  retailing  for  his  edi- 
fication more  or  less  of  the  current  history 
of  Westfield  written  between  the  lines, 
which  was  only  to  be  picked  up  gradually 
by  one  who  had  been  prevented  by  absence 
from  personal  observation. 

It  was  a  very  simple  matter  to  detect  the 
trouble  with  his  companion's  stroke. 

"You  don't  keep  your  eye  on  the  ball, 
[86] 


I 


THE    ORCHID 


Miss    Blake.      That's   the   whole   trouble 
with  you.    Anyone  can  see  that." 

Peggy  looked  incredulous.  "If  there  is 
one  special  thing  more  than  another  which 
I  try  to  bear  constantly  in  mind,  it  is  to 
keep  my  eye  on  the  ball.  Do  I  really  take 
it  off,  Mr.  Spencer?  Of  course  you  must 
know.  There  are  so  many  other  things  to 
remember,  but  I  did  think  I  was  com- 
pletely disciplined  on  that  point.  Watch 
me  now." 

Thereupon  she  proceeded  to  execute  a 
dashing  stroke,  her  evident  standard  being 
to  carry  her  club  through  with  such  veloc- 
ity as  to  bring  the  head  round  her  left 
shoulder  and  cause  her  to  execute  a 
pirouette  like  the  pictures  of  the  golfing 
girls  in  the  magazines.  The  ball  flew  off 
at  a  tangent  and  narrowly  missed  her  own 
caddy. 

[87] 


THE    ORCHID 


"How  rotten !"  she  murmured.  "I  had 
both  my  eyes  glued  on  the  ball,  and  you  see 
what  happened.  And  only  a  week  ago  I 
was  driving  like  a  streak."  Her  exple- 
tive was  merely  the  popular  phrase  of  the 
day  by  which  golden  youth  of  both  sexes 
was  apt  to  express  even  trivial  dissatis- 
faction. 

She  was  a  pathetic  figure  of  distress. 
Her  exertions  had  heightened  her  color  so 
that  it  suggested  the  poppy  rather  than  the 
rose,  and  was  not  unlike  the  hue  of  her 
trig  golfing  garment.  She  swept  back  a 
stray  ringlet  which  had  escaped  from  under 
her  hat.  "You  see  I  have  lost  my  game 
utterly,  Mr.  Spencer." 

Harry  laughed.  "You  were  looking  at 
me  out  of  the  corners  of  your  eyes  that 
time.  Lower  your  lids  until  you  exagger- 
ate the  modest  maiden  and  don't  move 
[88] 


THE    ORCHID 


your  head."  It  was  a  half-deferential, 
half-sardonic  voice  with  a  caressing  touch, 
indicating  temporary  devotion  to  the  sub- 
ject-matter in  hand  which  was  flattering. 
"Swing  more  easily,"  he  added,  "and 
don't  try  to  rival  the  Gibson  girl  until 
you  recover  confidence."  Then  he  cor- 
rected slightly  her  stance  and  the  position 
of  her  hands — all  with  a  deft  yet  bantering 
grace  of  manner  which  soothed  and  at- 
tracted her.  He  went  through  the  correct 
motions  of  the  stroke  for  her  enlighten- 
ment, and  as  he  stood  erect  and  supple 
Peggy  did  not  forbear  to  reflect  that  he 
was  very  handsome.  How  dark  his  hair 
and  eyes  were!  It  was  a  bold  sort  of 
beauty,  and,  though  he  wore  neither  mus- 
tache nor  beard,  the  faintly  bluish  tinge  of 
his  complexion  betrayed  that,  but  for  the 
barber,  he  would  have  been  what  Mrs. 
[89] 


THE    ORCHID 


Herbert  Cole  might  have  termed  an  incar- 
nate symphony  in  black.  He  appeared 
harmoniously  muscular.  He  executed  the 
necessary  movements  with  lithe,  nervous 
energy,  focusing  his  attention  tensely  for 
the  brief  occasion.  The  moment  he  low- 
ered his  club  he  regained  his  leisurely  and 
rather  indolent  demeanor. 

His  pupil  essayed  to  follow  his  instruc- 
tions. At  the  third  attempt  the  ball  sailed 
straight  as  an  arrow  to  a  moderate  dis- 
tance, which  comforted  the  performer,  but 
she  felt  too  nervously  excited  to  exult.  It 
might  be  only  an  accident. 

"Try  again,"  he  said  confidentially. 
"You've  almost  got  it." 

Once  more  the  ball  shot  correctly  from 
the  club.  Harry  stooped  and  placed  an- 
other on  the  tee.  Peggy  swung,  then  fol- 
lowed through  with  a  little  of  her  old 
[90] 


THE    ORCHID 


elasticity.  It  flew  like  a  rifle  bullet  low 
and  long  across  the  distant  bunker. 

She  rose  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  as 
she  followed  its  entrancing  flight.  "I've 
got  back  my  game,"  she  cried  jubilantly. 
"You've  saved  my  life,  Mr.  Spencer." 
She  looked  as  though  she  would  have  been 
glad,  had  convention  permitted,  to  throw 
her  arms  around  her  benefactor's  neck. 
And  to  the  true  golfer  it  would  not  seem 
an  exaggerated  reward.  "I've  been  in  the 
slough  of  despond  for  nearly  a  week,  and 
playing  worse  every  day.  Now  I'm  in  the 
seventh  heaven,  and  it's  all  your  doing." 

He  acknowledged  the  exuberant  grati- 
tude with  a  graceful  mock  heroic  bow.  "I 
shall  consider  my  terms.  The  charge 
should  be  considerable." 

Just  then  by  the  sheerest  chance  a  white 
carnation  which  Peggy  was  wearing  at  her 
[90 


THE    ORCHID 


throat  became  detached  from  her  dress  and 
fell  to  the  ground.  He  picked  it  up,  and, 
holding  it  before  him  and  looking  into  her 
eyes,  said  with  melodious  assurance: 

"I  will  keep  this,  if  I  may,  as  my  tuition 
fee." 

Peggy  looked  embarrassed  and  let  fall 
her  eyes,  albeit  not  easily  disconcerted. 
The  carnation  was  one  from  a  bunch  which 
Guy  Perry  had  sent  her  the  day  before, 
and  to  hand  it  over  seemed  almost  an  act 
of  treason,  though  they  were  not  yet  actu- 
ally engaged.  Yet  she  was  conscious  that 
she  thought  this  new  acquaintance  charm- 
ing. Silence  gives  consent  where  lovely 
woman  is  concerned.  At  any  rate,  when 
she  looked  up  he  was  in  the  act  of  placing 
it  in  his  buttonhole.  But  his  fingers  had 
paused  in  their  work  as  a  consequence  of 
his  arrested  glance.  A  feminine  figure  out- 
[92] 


THE    ORCHID 


lined  on  the  crest  of  adjacent  rising  ground 
had  suddenly  caught  his  eye.  She  was  ad- 
dressing her  ball  for  a  brassie  shot,  and  as 
he  gazed  it  was  performed  with  a  sweeping 
grace  of  which  the  lack  of  effort  was  the 
salient  charm. 

Peggy,  whose  eyes  had  promptly  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his,  vouchsafed  the 
desired  information. 

"Mrs.  Herbert  Maxwell." 

"Really!"  There  was  a  shade  of  in- 
terest in  the  monosyllable,  as  though  the 
identity  of  some  one  whom  he  had  been 
rather  curious  to  meet  had  been  revealed 
to  him. 

"You  haven't  met  her?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Oh,  you'd  like  her  immensely." 

The  words  were  uttered  with  such  naive 
confidence  that  Harry  Spencer  turned  away 
[93] 


THE    ORCHID 


his  gaze  from  the  new  attraction  to  survey 
the  old. 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  inquired 
jauntily. 

Peggy  spluttered  a  little  at  this  flank 
attack.  "Oh,  well,  you  know,  she's  so 
awfully  clever.  She's  different.  She'd 
pique  your  curiosity  anyway,"  she  con- 
cluded, recovering  her  aplomb. 

"Am  I  so  difficult  to  please?"  he  asked 
sententiously.  He  answered  the  question 
himself.  "Yes,  I  admit  that  I  am."  His 
look  of  admiration,  which  Peggy  divined 
was  constitutional  with  him  on  such  occa- 
sions, was  best  to  be  met  by  diversion. 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  play  golf  as 
Lydia  Maxwell  does,  and  I've  been  at  it 
twice  as  long.  She  has  only  played  this 
spring,  and  Dobson  says  that  she  has  a 
better  idea  of  the  game  than  any  other 
[94] 


THE    ORCHID 


woman.  It's  just  knack  with  her,  for  her 
balls  go  farther  than  mine  and  yet  she 
makes  scarcely  an  exertion.  You  couldn't 
help  admire  her  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  It  has 
been  a  dreadfully  quiet  season  for  her, 
though,  for  when  her  baby  was  six  weeks 
old  and  she  had  sent  out  cards  for  two 
musical  parties  in  their  new  town  house, 
her  husband's  mother,  old  Mrs.  Maxwell, 
died  suddenly,  and  she  had  to  go  into 
mourning.  So  they  went  to  Southern  Cali- 
fornia for  February  and  March,  and 
moved  down  here  as  soon  as  they  returned. 
She  took  lessons  in  golf  at  Los  Angeles, 
and  she  beat  me  four  up  the  first  time  we 
played,  even  though  I  supposed  I  could 
give  her  half  a  stroke." 

While   he  listened  to  this  monologue, 
Spencer  followed  the  progress  of  the  sub- 
ject of  it.     She  was  playing  with  pretty 
[95] 


THE    ORCHID 


Mrs.  Baxter,  but,  though  her  opponent 
was  an  ordinarily  graceful  woman,  there 
was  a  deft  harmony  in  her  movements 
which  made  Mrs.  Baxter  appear  an  un- 
finished person  by  comparison. 

"They  say  the  real  secret  is  that  she  has 
an  artistic  temperament."  The  speech  was 
Peggy's  by  way  of  reading  his  thoughts 
and  providing  a  condensed  and  compre- 
hensive key. 

"And  her  husband — what  is  he  like? 
You  know  he  has  come  to  the  surface  dur- 
ing my  absence." 

"He  hasn't  it  at  all — I  mean  an  artistic 
temperament.  But  he's  an  awfully  good 
sort — awfully;  a  true  sport,  and  kind  as 
can  be."  Peggy's  vocabulary  of  enthu- 
siasm, though  fundamentally  native,  some- 
times made  reprisals  on  the  kindred  jargon 
of  Great  Britain. 

[96] 


THE    ORCHID 


"I  see.  And  you  infer  that  I  have 
an  artistic  temperament?"  A  tendency 
toward  challenging  unexpectedness  was  one 
of  Spencer's  prime  manifestations  with 
women. 

Peggy  looked  embarrassed.  She  had 
not  bargained  for  such  an  unequivocal 
piece  of  teasing.  She  put  up  her  hand  to 
her  head  to  secure  her  escaping  comb.  "I 
don't  know  you  very  well,  of  course,  but 
I  had  supposed  so.  Yet  I'm  not  clever,  and 
I  dote  on  Lydia,"  she  added  archly. 

Harry  Spencer  did  not  have  to  go  out 
of  his  way  for  an  opportunity  to  satisfy  his 
curiosity  by  personal  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Herbert  Maxwell.  When  he  and  his 
fair  partner  had  finished  the  last  hole  and 
approached  the  piazza  of  the  new  club- 
house, they  found  her  sitting  there — one  of 
a  group  of  both  sexes  waiting  for  luncheon- 
[97] 


THE    ORCHID 


Peggy,  radiant  and  prodigal  of  superla- 
tives, proclaimed  to  one  after  another  that 
her  game  had  come  back.  Wasn't  it  per- 
fectly glorious? — the  loveliest  thing  which 
had  ever  happened.  And  Mr.  Spencer  had 
detected  at  once  what  was  wrong.  "Just 
think  of  it,  I  was  pressing  and  took  my 
eye  off  the  ball,"  she  kept  reiterating,  "and 
I  never  knew  it.  Wasn't  it  dear  of  him?" 
One  of  the  most  characteristic  features 
of  golf  is  that  it  is  not  an  altruistic  pas- 
time. Everyone  is  feverishly  absorbed  by 
the  state  of  his  own  game,  and  does  not 
care  at  heart  a  picayune  for  his  neighbor's. 
At  the  moment  of  Peggy's  vociferous  ad- 
vent the  assembled  company  were  talking 
in  pairs,  and  each  member  of  each  pair  was 
endeavoring  to  excite  the  interest  of  his  or 
her  partner  in  the  dialogue  by  glowing  or 
dejected  narration  of  why  his  or  her  score 
[98] 


THE    ORCHID 


was  lower  or  higher  than  the  speaker's 
average.  In  some  cases  both  were  talking 
at  once  and  neither  listened.  Oftener,  per- 
haps, each  had  asserted  an  innings,  and 
the  strongest  or  most  persistent  lungs  held 
the  mastery.  Miss  Marbury,  who  under 
the  tutelage  of  Dobson  had  done  the 
longest  hole  in  12  and  the  eighteen  holes 
in  132 — five  better  than  ever  before — was 
bubbling  over  with  ecstasy  and  soliciting 
congratulations.  Douglas  Hale,  who  had 
failed  by  one  stroke  to  surpass  his  previous 
record  of  82,  was  telling  hoarsely  and 
pathetically  to  everyone  whom  he  could 
buttonhole  how  it  happened. 

"At  the  fourteenth  hole  I  was  on  the 
green  in  two  and  took  seven  for  the  hole. 
Seven!  Just  think  of  that,  seven!  Five 
strokes  on  the  green."  As  he  uttered  the 
words  with  excruciating  precision,  he 
[99] 


THE    ORCHID 


would  hold  up  the  five  fingers  of  his  hand 
and  shake  them  at  his  auditor.  It  was  an 
experience  which  would  last  him  all  day 
and  as  far  into  the  evening  as  he  could  find 
new  listeners,  especially  if  he  could  en- 
deavor to  take  the  edge  off  his  disappoint- 
ment by  Scotch  and  soda. 

Consequently,  though  everybody  heard 
that  Miss  Peggy  Blake  had  recovered  her 
game,  and  her  breezy  invasion  caused  a 
stir,  the  fact  that  she  had  done  so  was  of 
interest  only  because  of  the  means  by 
which  this  had  been  brought  to  pass.  It 
was  Harry  Spencer,  not  she,  who  became 
the  cynosure  of  numerous  feminine  eyes. 
If  he  had  put  Peggy  onto  her  game,  why 
not  them  onto  theirs?  Peggy,  mistaking 
the  reason  for  the  pause  in  the  general 
chatter  for  interest  in  her  improvement, 
proceeded  to  rehearse  gleefully  the  details 


THE    ORCHID 


of  her  triumph  for  the  benefit  of  the  com- 
pany. But  Douglas  Hale,  in  no  mood  to 
be  side-tracked  by  any  such  interruption, 
stepped  forward,  and  hooking  his  arm  in 
Harry  Spencer's,  led  him  apart  with 
a  mysterious  "A  word  with  you,  old 
man." 

Having  thus  enforced  an  audience,  he 
held  forth  in  the  low  tone  appropriate  to 
an  interesting  confidence.  "Just  now  I  was 
58  at  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  hole,  and 
was  on  the  green  of  the  fourteenth  in  two, 
and  I  took  seven  for  the  hole.  Five  puts  on 
the  green!  Think  of  that,  five!"  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely,  and  shook  his  five  fingers  in 
Harry's  face.  "Seven  for  the  hole.  And 
I  finished  in  82.  Tied  my  own  record. 
Wasn't  that  the  meanest  streak  of  luck  a 
man  ever  had?  Five  puts,  and  two  of 
them  rimmed  the  cup." 
[101] 


THE    ORCHID 


His  victim  listened  indulgently.  The 
firm  grip  on  his  arm  precluded  escape. 

"You  must  learn  to  put,  my  dear  fel- 
low." 

"That's  the  most  sickening  part  of  it. 
I  made  every  other  put.  Let  me  tell  you 
— you  remember  the  slope  of  the  four- 
teenth green?  Well,  I " 

Realizing  what  he  was  in  for,  Harry 
took  advantage  of  a  momentary  pause  on 
the  part  of  his  torturer  for  the  purpose  of 
lighting  a  cigarette.  His  observing  eyes 
had  noticed  that  Mrs.  Maxwell  was  stand- 
ing apart  from  the  other  women  who  were 
within  range  of  Miss  Blake's  jubilant  reit- 
eration. He  wrenched  himself  free  from 
Douglas's  clutch. 

"It  was  a  case  of  downright  hard  luck, 
and  now,  in  return  for  my  heart-felt  sym- 
pathy and  for  listening  to  your  tale  of 

[102] 


THE    ORCHID 


woe,  introduce  me  to  Mrs.  Herbert  Max- 
well." 

Puffing  at  his  half-lighted  cigarette, 
Douglas  Hale  reached  out  to  recover  his 
lost  grip.  "Wait  a  minute.  You  haven't 
heard  half.  I  will  show  you  just  how  it 
happened." 

Spencer  intercepted  the  reaching  fingers 
and  grabbed  the  offender's  wrist,  and  said, 
with  jocund  firmness,  "I  don't  care  a 
tinker's  dam  how  it  happened,  Douglas, 
and  I  tell  you  you  can't  put.  Introduce 
me  to  Mrs.  Maxwell." 

This  quip  caused  the  egotist  to  draw 
himself  up  stiffly.  He  was  proof  against 
hints  and  ordinary  recalcitration,  but  such 
an  unmistakable  rebuff  was  not  to  be 
ignored;  that  is,  he  could  not  with  proper 
self-respect  continue  the  harangue  on  which 
he  was  bent. 


THE    ORCHID 


"Of  course  if  you  don't  care  to  hear  how 
it  happened,  I  won't  tell  you."  So  saying, 
Douglas  suffered  himself  to  be  conveyed 
the  necessary  few  steps,  and  performed  the 
ceremony  of  introduction. 

Lydia  let  her  eyes  rest  with  keen  but  in- 
terested scrutiny  on  this  new-comer.  He 
was  a  boon  at  the  moment,  for  she  had 
taken  the  gauge  of  everybody  at  Westfield, 
and  was  conscious  that  neither  her  heart 
nor  her  brain  was  satisfied.  She  craved 
novelty  and  true  aesthetic  appreciation. 
Did  anyone  really  understand  her?  Not 
even  Fannie  Cole,  who  came  the  nearest  to 
divining  her  hatred  of  the  commonplace 
and  her  dread  of  being  bored.  But  Fannie, 
though  discerning,  chose  to  remain  a  slave 
to  the  canons  of  conformity.  That  morn- 
ing, in  her  looking-glass  she  had  asked  her- 
self the  question,  "Why  did  I  ever  marry 
[104] 


THE    ORCHID 


Herbert  Maxwell?"  But  she  had  asked  it 
with  no  malice  aforethought,  merely  as 
one  who,  with  leisure  to  take  account  of 
stock,  foots  up  his  assets  and  puts  the  ques- 
tion, "Am  I  solvent?"  The  interrogation 
was  simply  searching  and  contemplative. 
The  answer  had  been  prompt,  and  in  a 
measure  assuring.  "Because  it  gave  me 
everything  I  need."  Yet,  somehow,  there 
remained  a  cloud  upon  her  spirit.  Was 
this  all?  Did  life  offer  nothing  further? 

"We  make  a  fuss  and  circumstance 
about  our  sports,"  she  said. 

"They  do  creak." 

It  was  agreeable  to  be  comprehended  so 
promptly.  "It  isn't  sport  for  sport's  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  cups  and  because  it's 
the  thing." 

"And  above  all  to  beat  the  other  fellow. 
That's  the  national  creed.  It's  so  in 
[105] 


THE    ORCHID 


everything — competition.  We  are  brought 
up  from  childhood  to  consider  that  winning 
is  the  thing  which  counts.  We  must  win 
at  any  cost  at  foot-ball  or  trade,  in  affairs 
or  in  love." 

She  made  one  of  her  little  pauses.  De- 
cidedly he  was  a  kindred  spirit  and  to  be 
cultivated.  "I  am  an  exotic  then." 

"How  so?" 

"Competition — the  national  creed — 
does  not  interest  me." 

"Because  you  win  so  easily.  I  watched 
you  play  this  morning.  You  will  have  no 
rival  of  your  own  sex  here." 

She  ignored  the  tribute;  she  knew  that 
already;  it  was  the  thesis  which  interested 
her. 

"It  bores  me — winning,  I  mean.  Golf, 
for  the  time  being,  is  a  delight." 

He  gave  her  a  pirate  glance,  as  though 
[106] 


THE    ORCHID 


to  search  her  soul,  and  uttered  one  of  his 
bold  sallies: 

"That  is,  your  doll  is  stuffed  with " 

She  checked  him,  shaking  her  head. 
"Oh,  no.  That  is,  I  think  not.  I  have 
never  cut  her  open.  I  had  in  mind  some- 
thing quite  different."  Her  dainty  face 
grew  pensive  as  she  sought  the  exact  phrase 
to  interpret  her  psychology.  "I  have  never 
had  to  struggle  for  anything.  It  has  al- 
ways come  to  me." 

"Exactly."  His  note  of  emphasis  re- 
minded her  that  her  words  were,  after  all, 
merely  an  indirect  echo  of  his  diagnosis. 
"But  your  time  is  sure  to  come,"  he  as- 
serted confidently. 

The  smile  of  incredulity  which  curved 
her  lips  betrayed  entertainment  also.  "In 
what  field?"  she  inquired. 

Spencer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
[107] 


THE    ORCHID 


am  a  student  of  character,   not  a  sooth- 
sayer." 

"And  then?"  she  queried. 

"You  will  be  like  the  rest  of  us — only 
more  so.  You  could  not  bear  to  lose  at 
any  cost." 

What  might  have  seemed  effrontery  in 
some  men  was  but  a  piquant  challenge  in 
his  mouth,  so  speciously  was  it  uttered. 
Lydia  was  not  unaccustomed  to  men  whose 
current  coin  was  sardonic  sallies,  as  witness 
the  veteran  Gerald  Marcy.  But  this  was 
something  different.  Her  soul  had  been 
suddenly  pitchforked  by  a  professor  of 
anatomy  and  held  up  under  her  nose  with 
the  caveat  that  she  was  ignorant  of  the 
mainsprings  of  her  own  behavior.  It  was 
impudence,  but  novel,  and  she  forgave  it 
with  the  reflection  that  he  would  live  to  eat 
his  gratuitous  deductions,  which  would  be 
the  neatest  form  of  vengeance. 
[108] 


'1  he  smile  of  incredulity  which  curved  her  lips  betrayed  entertainment  also. 


BEFORE  many  weeks  had  elapsed  it  be- 
gan to  be  whispered  at  Westfield  that 
Harry  Spencer  and  Mrs.  Herbert  Max- 
well were  seeing  more  or  less  of  each  other. 
They  appeared  together  not  infrequently 
on  the  golf  links ;  it  was  known  that  he  was 
giving  her  lessons  at  her  own  house  in 
bridge  whist,  the  new  game  of  cards;  they 
had  been  met  walking  in  the  lanes;  and — 
most  significant  item,  which  caused  the  col- 
ony to  prick  up  its  ears  and  ask,  "What 
does  this  mean?" — two  youthful  anglers 
had  encountered  them  strolling  in  the  lone- 
ly woods  skirting  distant  Duck  Pond.  This 
last  discovery,  which  was  early  in  Septem- 
ber, led  to  the  conclusion  that,  under  cover 
of  her  mourning,  Lydia  must  have  been 
[  109] 


THE    ORCHID 


seeing  more  of  him  than  anyone  had 
imagined.  Yet,  even  then,  though  alert 
brains  indulged  in  knowing  innuendoes, 
Mrs.  Cole's  epigrammatic  estimate  of  the 
matter  was  generally  accepted  as  sound : 

"A  woman  in  mourning  for  her  mother- 
in-law  requires  diversion." 

It  seemed  probable  that  Lydia  was 
amusing  herself,  and  that  Harry  Spencer 
was  playing  the  tame  cat  for  their  mutual 
edification.  The  possibility  that  he  had 
been  caught  at  last  and  that  she  was  luring 
him  on  that  she  might  lead  him  like  a  bear 
with  a  ring  through  his  nose,  and  thus 
avenge  her  sex  for  his  past  indifference, 
was  regarded  as  unlikely  but  delightful. 
That  Lydia  was  enamored  of  her  ad- 
mirer, and  that  they  both  cared,  was  not 
seriously  entertained  until  many  circum- 
stances seemed  to  point  to  such  a  deduction, 
[no] 


THE    ORCHID 


Westfield  was  not  wholly  without  expe- 
rience in  intimacies  between  husbands  or 
wives  and  a  third  party.  But  only  rarely 
had  there  been  fire  as  well  as  smoke  in  these 
cases.  And  even  then  there  had  never  been 
up  to  this  time  an  open  scandal.  Matters 
had  been  patched  up  or  the  veil  of  diplo- 
matic convention  had  been  drawn  so  skil- 
fully over  them  that  most  people  were  left 
in  the  dark  as  to  the  real  truth.  Almost 
invariably  the  intimacies  in  question  re- 
minded one  of  the  antics  of  horses  with 
too  high  action  who  had  all  the  show 
but  little  of  the  quality  of  runaways;  and 
the  preferences  manifested  were  not  al- 
ways inconsistent  with  conjugal  devotion. 
Consequently,  everyone  took  for  granted 
that  this  was  only  another  "fake"  instance 
of  family  disarrangement,  entered  on  to 
pass  the  time  and  to  provide  that  appear- 
[in] 


THE    ORCHID 


ance  of  evil  which  the  American  woman 
seems  to  find  a  satisfying  substitute  for  the 
real  article.  As  Mrs.  Cole  once  remarked 
in  defending  the  propensity  to  Gerald 
Marcy,  if  one's  vanity  is  flattered,  why 
should  one  go  farther? 

The  buzz  of  curiosity  was  stimulated 
during  the  ensuing  autumn  by  a  variety  of 
fresh  and  compromising  rumors.  Conse- 
quently, when  at  a  golfing  luncheon  party 
given  at  the  club  by  Mrs.  Gordon  Wallace 
in  October,  Mrs.  Baxter,  whose  blue  eyes 
always  suggested  innocence,  asked  in  her 
demure  way  what  the  latest  news  was  from 
"The  Knoll,"  every  tongue  had  something 
new  to  impart.  The  most  sensational  as 
well  as  the  latest  piece  of  information  was 
provided  by  Mrs.  Cunningham,  who  re- 
peated it  with  the  air  of  one  whose  faith 
had  at  last  received  a  serious  shock- 

[112] 


THE    ORCHID 


"She  sat  with  him  on  the  piazza  at  'The 
Knoll'  until  three  o'clock  night  before  last. 
Her  husband  came  home  at  eleven  and  re- 
quested her  to  go  to  bed,  but  there  they 
stayed  without  him.  I  call  that  pretty  bad, 
even  if  she  is  Lydia.  I  wonder  how  long 
Herbert  Maxwell  will  permit  this  sort 
of  thing  to  go  on.  Even  the  worm  will 
turn." 

There  was  an  eloquent  silence,  which 
was  broken  by  a  repetition  of  Mrs.  Cole's 
whitewashing  epigram  as  to  Lydia's  need 
of  diversion.  Its  cleverness  and  value  as 
a  generalization  caused  a  ripple  of  amuse- 
ment, but  it  fell  flat  as  a  specific.  Old  Mrs. 
Maxwell  had  been  dead  many  months,  yet 
matters  were  more  disconcerting  than  ever. 
Stout  Miss  Marbury's  question  was  re- 
garded as  much  more  to  the  point : 

"Who  saw  them,  Mrs.  Cunningham?" 


THE    ORCHID 


May  Cunningham  would  have  preferred 
to  remain  silent  on  this  score,  but  she  per- 
ceived that  the  authenticity  of  her  story  was 
dependent  on  direct  testimony.  It  was  a 
luncheon  of  eight.  She  glanced  around  the 
table  in  an  appealing  manner  as  much  as 
to  say,  "This  really  is  not  to  be  spoken  of," 
and  said  laconically,  "There  was  another 
couple  present."  Then,  as  though  she 
feared  on  second  thought  that  the  wrong 
persons  might  be  fixed  on,  she  continued: 
"Neither  of  them  were  married.  They  are 
supposed  to  be  engaged,  and  Lydia  acted 
as  their  chaperone  on  the  piazza  while  they 
took  a  moonlight  ride  together." 

"Who  can  they  have  been?"  murmured 
some  one  sweetly,  and  there  was  a  general 
giggle. 

"You  wormed  it  out  of  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Cunningham  doggedly.  "You  demanded 


THE    ORCHID 


my  credentials.  But  it  doesn't  matter  about 
those  two,  of  course,  for  they're  in  love." 

"How  about  the  others?"  ventured  Mrs. 
Baxter. 

"Truly,  Rachel,  you  shock  me,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Cunningham  sternly.  "It's 
no  joking  matter.  It's  a  very  serious  situa- 
tion for  this  colony,  in  my  opinion.  People 
who  don't  know  us  do  not  think  any  too 
well  of  us  already  because  some  of  us 
smoke  cigarettes  and  go  in  for  hunting  and 
an  open-air  life  instead  of  trying  to  reform 
somebody.  But  this  will  give  the  gossips 
a  real  handle.  Besides,  it's  disreputable." 

"But  I  really  wished  to  know,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Baxter.  "Does  either  of  them 
care?  And  if  so,  which?" 

"My  own  belief,"  interjected  Mrs.  Cole, 
"as  I  said  just  now,  is  that  there's  nothing 
in  it — nothing  serious.  Lydia  is  simply 


THE    ORCHID 


catering  to  her  aesthetic  side,  and  everyone 
knows  Harry  Spencer.  It  seems  to  me  per- 
sonally that  she  has  gone  too  far,  but  that 
is  a  question  of  taste,  and,  provided  her 
husband  doesn't  complain,  why  need  we?" 
Thereupon  she  popped  into  her  mouth  a 
luscious-looking  coffee  cream  confection 
and  munched  it  ruminantly. 

"It  has  become  a  question  of  morals," 
asserted  Mrs.  Cunningham.  "If  their  re- 
lations are  what  we  don't  believe  them  to 
be,  it's  a  disgrace  to  Westfield.  If  they 
are  simply  amusing  themselves,  it's  heart- 
less, and  I  know  what  I  would  do  if  I  were 
Herbert  Maxwell." 

"So  do  I,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reynolds,  a 
spirited  young  matron  with  the  breath  of 
life  in  her  nostrils,  yet,  as  someone  once 
remarked  of  her,  notoriously  devoted  to 
her  lord  and  master. 

[116] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Just  what  my  husband  said,"  added 
Mrs.  Miller,  a  bride  of  a  year's  standing, 
which,  considering  nothing  whatever  had 
been  said,  provoked  a  smile  and  brought  a 
blush  to  the  countenance  of  the  speaker, 
which  deepened  as  Mrs.  Baxter  with  her 
accustomed  innocence  asked: 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"Pick  out  the  most  seductive-looking 
woman  I  could  set  my  eyes  on,  Rachel 
dear,  and" — blurted  out  Mrs.  Reynolds 
pungently.  As  she  paused  an  instant  seek- 
ing her  phrase,  Mrs.  Cunningham  inter- 
jected: 

"Sh!  We  understand.  That  might 
bring  her  to  her  senses." 

"But  Herbert  Maxwell  never  would," 
said  Mrs.  Cole,  reaching  for  another  sweet- 
meat. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  retorted 
[II?] 


THE    ORCHID 


Mrs.  Cunningham.  "He's  faithful  as  a 
mastiff,  but  goad  him  too  far  and  he  may 
prove  to  be  a  slumbering  lion,  in  my 
opinion." 

"That  wouldn't  suit  Lydia  at  all,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Cole.  The  thesis  interested 
her.  "She  takes  for  granted,  I  presume, 
his  unswerving  fidelity.  Besides,  he  would 
consider  it  morally  wrong.  I  shall  be  very 
much  surprised,  my  dear,  if  you  are  not 
mistaken." 

"I'm  not  a  married  woman,"  suggested 
Miss  Marbury,  "but  I  think  he  ought  to 
put  a  stop  in  some  way  or  other  to  the 
present  condition  of  things,  and  that  it  is 
his  fault  if  he  doesn't." 

A  murmur  of  acquiescence  showed  that 

this  was  the  general  sentiment,  at  which 

point    the    discussion    of    the    topic    was 

brought  to  a  close  by  the  hostess's  rising 

[118] 


THE    ORCHID 


from  the  table — that  is,  discussion  by  the 
party  as  a  whole.  After  they  had  repaired 
to  the  general  sitting-room — that  neutral 
apartment  in  the  club  which  was  appro- 
priated to  the  use  of  both  sexes — the  sub- 
ject still  claimed  the  attention  of  the  groups 
into  which  the  company  subdivided  itself. 
Here  Mrs.  Baxter  found  an  opportunity  to 
repeat  her  inquiry  whether  either,  neither, 
or  both  cared,  which  really  was  the  most 
interesting  uncertainty  of  the  situation,  and 
one  which  elicited  a  variety  of  opinion. 
Some,  like  Mrs.  Cole,  were  still  incredu- 
lous, or  chose  to  be,  that  either  of  them  was 
in  earnest.  But  several  of  the  more  know- 
ing women  wagged  their  heads  in  concert 
with  Mrs.  Cunningham,  who,  seated  where 
her  vision  could  rest  on  the  full-length  por- 
trait of  her  husband  swathed  in  pink  as  the 
first  Master  of  the  Westfield  Hounds — one 


THE    ORCHID 


of  the  new  decorative  features — repeated 
data  to  the  effect  that  Herbert  Max- 
well was  looking  glum  and  was  drinking  a 
little — much  more  than  ever  before  in  his 
life. 

"Poor  fellow!"  sighed  Miss  Marbury, 
and  she  added,  as  though  in  self-congratu- 
latory monologue,  that  there  were  some 
compensations  in  being  single. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind;  you  know  noth- 
ing about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cunningham 
tartly.  She  did  not  choose  to  hear  the  in- 
stitution of  holy  matrimony  traduced  by 
a  mere  spinster ;  moreover,  her  nerves  were 
on  edge  because  of  her  solicitude  lest  the 
most  appalling  possibility  of  all  were  true 
— that  Lydia  really  cared.  For,  granting 
the  hypothesis,  what  might  not  Lydia  do? 
What  would  Lydia  do?  And  as  yet, 
though  conjecture  ran  riot  and  all  West- 
[  120] 


THE    ORCHID 


field  was  holding  its  breath,  no  one  could 
speak  with  authority  as  to  what  the  truth 
was.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Cunningham,  as 
an  observer,  was  disposed  to  take  a  pessi- 
mistic view  as  to  what  the  future  had  in 
store  for  the  colony,  the  good  repute  of 
which  was  precious  to  her.  On  the  other 
hand,  many  of  the  younger  spirits  among 
the  women  were  inclined  to  regard  the 
mother  of  the  hunt  as  a  croaker,  and  as 
they  chatted  apart  from  her  on  this  occa- 
sion they  cited  her  late  opposition  to  the 
recent  innovations  at  the  club  as  typical  of 
her  mental  attitude. 

"Yet  to-day,  if  a  vote  were  taken 
whether  we  should  go  back  to  the  old  prim- 
itive order  of  things,"  added  Mrs.  Miller, 
"she  would  be  one  of  the  most  strenuous 
defenders  of  the  extra  space  and  improved 
service  which  we  now  enjoy.  She  can't 
[121] 


THE    ORCHID 


keep  her  eyes  off  that  portrait  of  her  hus- 
band.    Look  at  her  now." 

The  stricture,  so  far  as  it  related  to  Mrs. 
Cunningham's  change  of  front  regarding 
the  alterations,  was  just.  Yet  her  frank 
acceptance  and  enjoyment  of  the  more  dec- 
orative rooms  and  ampler  creature-com- 
forts, even  though  they  wore  a  radiance 
reflected  from  her  husband's  full-length 
figure,  revealed  a  broad  and  accommodat- 
ing mind.  There  are  some  persons  who 
will  continue  to  glorify  the  superseded  past 
even  in  the  face  of  a  manifestly  more 
charming  present.  These  are  the  real  old 
fogies,  and  there  is  no  help  for  us,  or  them, 
but  to  ignore  them.  But  Mrs.  Cunning- 
ham was  of  the  sort  which,  though  con- 
servative, is  ready  to  be  convinced  even 
against  its  will;  and,  having  been  con- 
vinced, she  was  able  to  draw  her  husband 

[122] 


THE    ORCHID 


after  her.  A  week's  occupation  of  the  new 
quarters  having  made  clear  to  her  that, 
though  more  luxurious,  they  were  vastly 
more  convenient,  she  had  sighed  and  given 
in.  Now  there  were  no  two  more  resolute 
defenders  of  the  results  of  the  radical 
policy  than  she  and  Andrew.  Nevertheless 
she  drew  the  line  there,  and  still,  suspicious 
of  what  others  defined  as  the  march  of 
progress,  she  was  prepared  like  a  faithful 
sentinel  to  challenge  developments  which 
aroused  her  distrust.  Because  the  new  club- 
house was  a  success,  and  the  inroad  of 
multi-millionnaires  had  not  been  so  subver- 
sive of  the  best  interests  of  the  colony  as 
she  had  feared,  there  was  no  occasion  to 
relax  her  vigilance.  Thus  she  argued,  and 
hence  her  genuine  and  somewhat  forebod- 
ing solicitude  as  to  Lydia's  behavior. 
But  though  Harry  Spencer  continued  to 
[123] 


THE    ORCHID 


dog  the  footsteps  of  Mrs.  Maxwell,  so  that 
he  appeared  in  her  society  on  all  occasions, 
and  people  wondered  more  and  more  how 
the  husband  could  permit  this  triangular 
household  to  continue  without  open  demur, 
there  were  no  new  developments  during  the 
late  autumn  and  winter.  Rumors  of  every 
description  were  rife,  but  no  one  of  the 
three  interested  parties  deigned  to  provide 
a  solution  of  the  enigma.  Maxwell's  de- 
meanor on  the  surface  was  so  far  unruffled 
that  certain  observers  continued  to  main- 
tain that  his  wife's  state  of  mind  was 
entirely  platonic;  in  other  words,  that  he 
trusted  Lydia,  and,  though  he  might  have 
preferred  more  of  her  society,  was  willing 
she  should  amuse  herself  in  her  own  way — 
which  was  not  apt  to  be  the  conventional 
way.  And  if  he  did  not  object,  why 
should  anyone  else,  especially  as  the 
[124] 


THE    ORCHID 


Maxwells  were  now  in  their  town  house 
and  local  censorship  by  Westfield  was  sus- 
pended? But  the  majority  shook  their 
heads,  and  repeated  that  though  Maxwell 
held  his  peace,  he  was  out  of  sorts  and  still 
drinking  more  than  his  wont.  Then,  just  as 
the  community  was  getting  a  little  weary 
of  the  whole  subject  because  nothing  did 
happen,  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  with 
Spain  drove  it  out  of  everyone's  mind. 

For  the  Westfield  Hunt  Club  was  up 
in  arms  at  the  first  suggestion  of  powder. 
All  the  small  talk  that  spring  bore  on  the 
matter  of  enlisting,  or  on  the  men  who  had 
enlisted.  Everyone  wished  to  be  a  rough 
rider,  and  if  a  commission  in  that  favorite 
corps  had  been  the  certain  prerogative  of 
an  offer  of  service,  all  the  able-bodied  bach- 
elors in  the  colony  would  have  enrolled 
themselves.  As  it  was,  there  were  numerous 
[125] 


THE    ORCHID 


applicants  for  this  particular  aggregation 
of  fighters,  but  only  Kenneth  Post,  the 
master  of  the  hounds,  succeeded  in  joining 
it.  Half  a  dozen  obtained  billets  else- 
where :  Guy  Perry  on  one  of  the  war  ves- 
sels despatched  to  Cuban  waters,  young 
Joe  Marbury  in  another  of  the  volunteer 
regiments,  and  Dick  Weston,  pretty  Mrs. 
Baxter's  brother,  on  one  of  the  yachts  con- 
verted into  a  coast  guard  for  the  protec- 
tion of  our  Atlantic  cities  against  bombard- 
ment by  the  battle-ships  of  Spain. 

Harry  Spencer  was  also  one  of  the  half 
dozen.  When  he  promptly  proffered  his 
services  to  the  Government,  it  was  somehow 
taken  for  granted  that  he  would  get  a  good 
post;  and  presently  he  justified  his  reputa- 
tion by  receiving  an  invitation  to  join  the 
staff  of  a  brigade  on  the  eve  of  embarking 
for  Cuba.  No  one  at  Westfield  impugned 
[126] 


THE    ORCHID 


his  courage  or  questioned  his  patriotism, 
but  some  of  the  women  in  discussing  the 
matter  later  agreed  that  he  had  to  go. 
Mrs.  Cole  put  it  in  a  nutshell  when  she 
said: 

"If  by  any  chance  Lydia  cares  for  him, 
she  would  never  have  spoken  to  him  again 
had  he  remained  at  home." 

But  there  were  cases,  too,  of  disappoint- 
ment. Andrew  Cunningham,  who,  in  spite 
of  conjugal  bonds,  was  eager  to  go  to  the 
front,  was  rejected  on  account  of  his  age 
and  weight,  much  to  his  chagrin  and  to 
the  secret  satisfaction  of  his  better-half. 
Douglas  Hale  was  discarded  on  the  plea  of 
color-blindness,  though,  as  he  pathetically 
informed  his  acquaintance,  the  doctor  who 
examined  him  declared  that  he  had  never 
seen  a  finer  physical  specimen  in  other 
respects.  Hence  it  will  be  perceived  that 
[127] 


THE    ORCHID 


there  was  a  nucleus  left  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  steady  fire  of  conversation  at 
the  club-house  for  the  benefit  of  the  stay- 
at-homes. 

At  first,  in  keeping  with  the  course  of 
events,  it  centred  on  the  possibilities  of  the 
destruction  of  New  York,  Boston,  or  Port- 
land by  the  enemy's  fleet;  and  after  that 
bogy  was  laid,  and  the  phantom  fleet  lo- 
cated, it  reverted  to  that  ever-fresh  topic 
for  controversy,  the  cause  of  the  blowing 
up  of  the  Maine.  Then  it  turned  to 
Manila,  and  when  the  events  of  that  splen- 
did victory  had  been  threshed  threadbare, 
scented  trouble  with  Germany.  The  vic- 
tory at  Santiago  set  every  tongue  a-wag- 
ging  and  raised  enthusiasm  to  fever  pitch; 
but  presently  the  struggles  of  our  poorly 
rationed  troops  prompted  an  inquiry  into 
the  merits  of  General  Shafter  as  a  com- 
[128] 


THE    ORCHID 


mander,  and  one  heard  the  hum  of  specu- 
lation as  to  what  would  have  happened 
if  Cervera  had  not  come  out  when  he  did. 
Some  of  the  members  showed  themselves 
positive  arsenals  of  statistics  and  secret  in- 
formation from  the  scene  of  action.  In- 
stead of  dwelling  on  his  misfortunes  at 
golf,  Douglas  Hale's  shibboleth  all  sum- 
mer was  the  letter  which  he  carried  in  his 
pocket  from  Guy  Perry,  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  in  the  van  of  the  battle  of 
Santiago.  This  he  read  to  every  man  or 
woman  of  his  acquaintance  who  would  let 
him,  and  cherished  as  an  historical  docu- 
ment which  put  him  in  close  touch  with 
the  authorities  at  Washington.  Andrew 
Cunningham  tried  to  make  the  best  of  his 
disappointment  by  showing  himself  an 
audible  authority  on  the  size  and  equip- 
ment, identity  and  immediate  location  of 
C  I29] 


THE    ORCHID 


every  battle-ship,  cruiser,  and  torpedo-boat 
in  the  navy,  and  as  to  our  future  needs  to 
fit  us  to  cope  with  the  naval  armaments  of 
the  other  great  powers  of  the  world.  As  to 
the  women,  they  were  utterly  absorbed  in 
making  bandages  and  comfort  bags. 

Such  were  the  diversions  of  the  spring 
and  early  summer.  By  August  the  heroes 
returned  from  the  front  and  began  to  re- 
appear on  their  native  heath.  Other  sport- 
ing garb  gave  place  to  regimental  attire, 
and,  to  be  in  fashion,  both  men  and  women 
wore  army  slouch  hats  and  suits  akin  to 
khaki.  One  of  the  first  of  the  Westfield 
colony  to  reach  home  was  Guy  Perry,  look- 
ing brown  as  an  Indian  from  his  long  ex- 
posure to  the  sun  outside  the  harbor  at 
Santiago.  On  the  day  after  his  return  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Peggy  Blake  was 
formally  announced,  much  to  the  delight  of 
[130] 


THE    ORCHID 


everybody,  but  to  no  one's  surprise — a  fact 
which  slightly  dismayed  the  radiant  couple, 
who  were  apparently  under  the  delusion 
that  their  tryst  had  been  kept  a  profound 
secret.  They  were  certainly  an  attractive- 
looking  pair  as  they  dashed  about  the 
country  on  Guy's  dog-cart,  proclaiming 
their  good  fortune  to  the  world.  Peggy's 
rough  rider  hat,  perched  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  suited  her  style  of  beauty;  and  as 
they  bubbled  over  with  health  and  happi- 
ness, more  than  one  camera  fiend  took  a 
shot  at  them  as  a  charming  epitome  of  the 
strenuous  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  Kenneth  Post  re- 
turned on  a  litter,  almost  a  skeleton  from 
fever;  and  Gerald  Marcy,  who  against  his 
own  doctor's  advice  had  finally  succeeded 
in  getting  stalled  in  camp  in  Florida,  was 
limping  with  rheumatism.  Nevertheless, 


THE    ORCHID 


he  was  able  to  be  about,  and,  though  on 
ordinary  occasions  a  socially  tactful  spirit, 
he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  pride  at 
being  the  only  one  of  the  middle-aged  men 
who  had  succeeded  in  dodging  the  authori- 
ties and  serving  his  country. 

But  the  hero  who  brought  back  the 
stateliest  palm  of  glory  from  Cuba  was 
Harry  Spencer,  for  he  had  his  arm  in  a 
sling  from  a  flesh  wound  caused  by  a  Span- 
ish bullet  at  San  Juan  Hill,  and  had  been 
subsequently  in  the  hospital,  threatened 
with  blood  poisoning.  He  was  emaciated 
and  interesting-looking,  so  Mrs.  Cole,  who 
had  a  glimpse  of  him,  declared,  and  he 
went  straight  to  the  small  cottage  at  West- 
field  where  he  had  spent  the  previous 
summer. 

Two  days  subsequent  to  his  return  the 
spirit  moved  Mrs.  Cole  to  call  on  Lydia, 


THE    ORCHID 


and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  she  paid 
this  visit  it  was  noticed  that  she  sat  pen- 
sive and  silent  while  the  other  women  at 
the  club  were  drinking  tea.  It  was  Mrs. 
Barker  who  called  attention  to  the  circum- 
stance by  asking: 

"What  are  you  incubating  on,  Fannie?" 

Mrs.  Cole  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then 
she  said  tragically,  "I  am  afraid  she  cares 
for  him." 

No  one  had  to  ask  who  was  meant. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cunningham. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  asked  the 
practical  Miss  Marbury. 

Fannie  Cole  shook  her  head.  "Not 
from  anything  she  said.  She  didn't  men- 
tion the  subject.  It  was  from  what  she 
didn't  say.  She  made  me  think  of  a  pent- 
up  volcano." 

[133] 


THE    ORCHID 


Proceeding  from  the  intimate  source  it 
did,  this  testimony,  though  metaphorical, 
was  felt  to  be  most  interesting. 

"And  if  the  volcano  bursts,  what  will  be- 
come of  poor  Herbert?"  murmured  Mrs. 
Baxter. 

"That's  it,  of  course.  Yet  it  isn't  the 
only  thing,"  responded  Mrs.  Cole.  "What 
will  become  of  Lydia?  What  will  become 
of  all  three  of  them?"  The  sociological 
vista  which  opened  before  her  was  evi- 
dently so  appalling  that  she  leaned  back 
limply  in  the  straw  chair  on  which  she 
was  sitting.  But  the  attitude  was  produc- 
tive of  philosophy,  for  she  suddenly  said 
with  the  air  of  one  rhapsodizing,  but  who 
nevertheless  utters  an  indictment  against 
Providence : 

"If  the  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends 
really  intended  Lydia  to  be  happy,  why 
[134] 


THE    ORCHID 


was  Harry  Spencer  allowed  to  return  when 
he  did?"  Warming  to  the  vividness  of 
her  imagination,  she  continued  briskly, 
"The  ideal  course  of  events  would  have 
been  this:  First,  the  baby  should  never 
have  been  born;  secondly,  Herbert  Max- 
well should  have  felt  an  uncontrollable 
patriotic  call  to  go  to  the  war;  he  should 
have  fought  with  distinguished  valor  and 
brilliancy — sufficient  to  inscribe  his  name 
on  the  pages  of  history — and  he  should 
have  been  shot  dead.  That  would  have 
satisfied  him.  Then  would  have  been  the 
time  for  Harry  Spencer  to  come  home. 
With  him  and  Herbert's  fortune  Lydia 
might  have  been  radiantly  happy.  As  it 
is — "  Mrs.  Cole  paused,  palsied  by  the 
perplexities  of  reality,  and  unwilling  to 
venture  on  prophecy. 

But  Mrs.  Baxter  saw  fit  to  finish  the 
[135] 


THE    ORCHID 


sentence  for  her  by  a  not  altogether  logical 
utterance:  "As  it  is,  it  was  Mr.  Spencer 
who  went  to  the  war  and  has  come  back 
alive  and  a  hero.  If  Lydia  liked  him  be- 
fore, it  is  of  course  all  the  harder  for  her 
not  to  like  him  now." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  uttered  a  sort  of 
groan.  Then  she  said  emphatically, 
"There  can  be  but  one  end  to  it,  in  my 
opinion.  Sooner  or  later  she  will  leave  her 
husband  and  run  away  with  him." 

There  was  a  general  nodding  of  heads — 
all  but  Mrs.  Cole's. 

"And  what  will  they  do  with  that  poor 
baby?"  interjected  Miss  Marbury. 

Fannie  Cole  sat  up  by  way  of  protest. 
"My  dears,"  she  said  with  gasping  alert- 
ness, "that  would  be  comparatively  nor- 
mal, and  it  cannot  be  the  correct  solution. 
Don't  you  see  it's  impossible?  Neither  of 
[136] 


THE    ORCHID 


them  has  any  money.  If  she  would,  he 
wouldn't,  and  neither  of  them  would." 
She  looked  around  the  circle  with  a  smile 
of  triumph,  knowing  that  her  stricture  was 
unanswerable. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Baxter,  voicing  the  general  perplexity. 


[1371 


VI 

LATE  one  afternoon,  about  a  month 
after,  Lydia  Maxwell  was  sitting  in  her 
drawing-room  at  Westfield.  An  exquisite 
tea  service  stood  on  a  table  close  at  hand. 
But  tea  had  been  served.  At  least  the  vis- 
itor who  had  been  spending  the  afternoon 
with  her  had  drunk  his  and  had  been 
gone  about  ten  minutes.  Her  baby,  left  by 
the  nurse  on  the  way  to  her  own  evening 
meal,  was  cooing  on  the  sofa  at  her  side, 
fended  by  pillows  from  toppling  over  on  its 
head,  and  provided  with  the  latest  novelties 
in  costly  toys.  The  child  was  now  nearly 
two,  and  her  wardrobe  was  a  credit  to  her 
mother's  decorative  instincts.  Lydia  en- 
joyed the  combination  of  the  infant  and 
[138] 


THE    ORCHID 


herself  and  spared  no  pains  to  produce  an 
effective  picture  on  all  occasions,  whether 
the  setting  were  the  drawing-room,  a  vic- 
toria, or  a  village  cart.  She  counted  on 
mounting  Guendolen  at  the  earliest  possible 
day  on  the  tiniest  of  ponies  as  a  pictur- 
esque hunting  attendant.  Nor  had  her 
husband  failed  to  appreciate  what  an  op- 
portunity was  here  afforded  for  the  artist. 
Six  months  earlier  he  had  threatened — the 
phrase  was  Lydia's — to  have  her  and  baby 
done  by  Sargent  on  his  next  visit;  in  fact, 
Herbert  had  written  to  him.  The  offer  had 
been  tempting  from  the  point  of  view  of 
immortality,  but  left  alone  with  the  child, 
she  had  shaken  her  head  and  said : 

"It  would  be  lovely  if  it  were  just  right, 

Guen,  but  he  might  take  it  into  his  head 

to  form  a  vicious  conception  of  mamma. 

And  as  for  you,  he  couldn't  help  making 

[  139  ] 


THE    ORCHID 


you  the  speaking  image  of  Grandma  Max- 
well. Living  pictures  are  safest  for  us, 
dear,  for  we  can  control  the  canvas." 

Now  she  sat  pensive  and  tense,  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap.  "Why  do  I  love  him 
so?"  she  murmured  under  her  breath,  re- 
belling against  the  consciousness  which 
gripped  her.  Yet  in  another  moment  she 
asserted  with  the  abandonment  of  one 
defending  his  faith  against  all  comers, 
"But  how  I  do  love  him!" 

A  jocund,  inarticulate  effort  at  conver- 
sation by  the  child  reminded  her  of  its 
presence.  Reaching  out  her  hand,  she  felt 
the  silky  softness  of  the  delicate  infantile 
locks,  and  then  the  dainty  texture  of  the 
frilled  dress.  Again  she  said,  talking  to 
herself:  "The  problem  is,  what  will  be- 
come of  you,  cherub?  You  must  go  with 
me,  of  course — if  I  go." 
[140] 


THE    ORCHID 


Her  baby  cooed  by  way  of  response. 
There  was  a  noise  in  the  hall  as  of  some- 
one arriving. 

"A  visitor  for  you,  Guen,"  she  said. 
Hurriedly  leaning  over,  she  raised  her  fin- 
ger as  one  would  to  hold  the  attention  of  a 
dancing  dog,  and  gave  this  cue  for  imi- 
tation. 

"Say  pa-a-pa — pa-a-pa." 

The  earlier  lessons  had  been  fairly 
learned,  for  after  a  brief  struggle  the 
dawning  intelligence  freed  itself  in  an 
unequivocal  if  throaty  reproduction  of  the 
pious  salutation. 

"You  little  pet!    Now  again." 

"Pa-a-pa." 

"At  last.  A  sop  to  Cerberus,"  Lydia 
murmured. 

The  door  opened  and  the  master  of  the 
house  entered.  He  had  just  come  back 


THE    ORCHID 


from  an  afternoon  ride,  and  in  the  few 
minutes  which  had  elapsed  since  his  return 
Lydia  knew  that  he  had  been  to  the  side- 
board in  the  dining-room — a  man's  way 
of  alleviating  despondency.  His  glance, 
avoiding  or  ignoring  his  wife,  sought 
eagerly  the  object  which  he  expected  to 
find — his  infant  daughter.  This  was  the 
bright  spot  in  his  day.  The  baby  ac- 
knowledged his  advent  by  a  crow  and  by 
shaking  a  solid  silver  rattle.  Maxwell, 
walking  across  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  sat  down  and  held  out  his  arms 
invitingly.  But  Lydia  intervened  to  defer 
the  customary  toddling  journey  in  order  to 
exhibit  her  pupil's  latest  accomplishment. 

"Listen  to  her  now,  Herbert,"  she  said, 
and  gave  the  necessary  signal. 

"Pa-a-pa."  The  verisimilitude  was  un- 
deniable. 


THE    ORCHID 


Something  very  like  a  groan  escaped 
Maxwell,  though  his  countenance  lighted 
up.  Was  he  thinking  how  happy  he  might 
have  been  had  fate  so  willed? 

The  performance  was  repeated  success- 
fully a  second  time;  then  the  child  was 
despatched  on  her  travels  across  the  carpet. 
When  she  ran  staggering  into  her  father's 
arms  he  folded  her  to  his  breast  and 
pressed  his  lips  against  the  fair,  silky 
tresses.  She  was  accustomed  to  be  thus 
cuddled  by  him,  though  to-night  there  was 
an  added  fervor  in  his  endearments,  owing 
to  her  efforts  at  speech.  Meanwhile  Lydia 
from  her  angle  of  the  sofa  observed  them 
in  demure  silence.  She  had  given  him  an 
entrancing  quarter  of  an  hour,  for  which 
she  was  thankful.  Besides,  it  might  put  off 
the  evil  day — the  day  of  rupture,  decision, 
breaking  up  of  the  present  anomalous  do- 
[143] 


THE    ORCHID 


mestic  relations — which  was  impending. 
He  had  been  devoted,  forbearing,  unselfish, 
he  had  lavished  on  her  every  luxury,  but 
he  was  impassible.  He  did  not  divert  or 
interest  her;  his  serious  side  lacked  origi- 
nality; his  gayer  moods  were  noisy  and 
deficient  in  subtlety;  the  reddish  inelegance 
of  his  physique  repelled  her.  But  what 
was  to  be  the  end?  This  was  the  riddle 
which  for  diverse  reasons  she  had  yet  failed 
to  solve.  Its  solution  must  depend  on  the 
future  words  of  both  of  them,  and  she  had 
had  no  final  explanation  with  either.  For 
the  present  she  would  fain  have  things 
remain  as  they  were,  until  she  could  find 
the  key. 

The  return  of  the  nurse  interrupted 
Maxwell's  happiness.  Grudgingly  he  gave 
up  his  treasure.  As  soon  as  the  child  had 
been  carried  off,  he  rose,  and  standing 


THE    ORCHID 


with  his  back  to  the  blaze  of  the  wood-fire, 
which  the  first  sharpness  of  autumn  made 
agreeable,  he  faced  his  wife. 

"I  met  Spencer  coming  from  here." 
"He  stayed  to  tea." 
"And  was  here  all  the  afternoon?" 
"You  know  he  comes  every  afternoon." 
"And  nearly  every  morning?" 
"Yes." 

"What  is  to  be  the  end  of  this,  Lydia?" 

She  was  preparing  his  tea,  which  he  was 

accustomed  to  take  after  the  departure  of 

Guendolen.    "How  do  you  wish  to  have  it 

end?"  she  asked  presently. 

"I  would  have  you  promise  me  never  to 
see  him  again,  and  to  go  abroad  with  me 
for  two  years.  Let  us  change  the  scene 
entirely.  You  owe  it  to  me,  Lydia,  and  to 
our  child."  This  was  no  new  discussion, 
but  he  was  making  one  last  determined 
[145] 


THE    ORCHID 


effort  to  counteract  the  influences  working 
against  him. 

"But  you  know  I  love  him." 

"So  you  have  informed  me.  You  have 
informed  me  also  that  it  has  stopped 
there." 

"It  is  true.  Why,  I  scarcely  know. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  juster  to  you  if 
I  had  left- you  and  gone  to  him." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"No  matter,  then." 

"But  you  loved  me  once,"  he  exclaimed 
resolutely.  "That  is,  you  told  me  so." 

"Yes,  I  told  you  so.  And  I  did  love 
you  as  I  understood  loving  then.  I  liked 
you,  that's  what  it  really  was,  and  I 
liked  the  things  which  a  marriage  with 
you  brought  me." 

"You  mean  you  married  me  for  my 
money?" 

[146] 


THE    ORCHID 


"I  did  notjcnow  it  at  the  time." 

"What  do  you  mean,  then?" 

Lydia  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head 
and  leaned  back  in  her  seat.  "I  am  trying 
to  be  frank  with  you,"  she  said.  "I  am 
trying  to  make  you  the  only  reparation  in 
my  power — to  let  you  see  me  just  as  I  am, 
just  as  I  see  myself.  We  are  what  we  are. 
I  discovered  that  long  ago." 

He  caught  up  this  appeal  to  fatalism 
with  a  quicker  appreciation  of  her  signifi- 
cance than  he  was  wont  to  show. 

"You  need  never  see  this  man  again 
unless  you  choose.  You  are  my  wife;  I 
am  your  husband.  Does  that  stand  for 
nothing?" 

"I  should  choose  to  see  him,"  she  an- 
swered with  low  precision,  ignoring  the 
rest.  "There  is  the  trouble." 

He  winced  as  though  from  a  buffet. 
[147] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Good  God,  Lydia,  what  have  I  done?  Is 
there  anything  within  my  power  which  you 
desired  which  I  haven't  given  you?" 

"You  have  been  very  generous." 

"Generous!"  The  word  evidently 
galled  him.  "Do  you  realize  that  to 
regain  your  love  I  would  gladly  sacri- 
fice every  dollar  of  the  five  million  I 
own?" 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  response. 
The  idea  of  living  with  a  penniless  Max- 
well was  one  which  she  had  never  enter- 
tained, and  it  made  clearer  to  her  the 
hopelessness  of  her  plight. 

"I  am  not  worth  it,  Herbert,"  she  said 
gently. 

He,  too,  paused,  baffled  and  at  a  loss  how 
to  proceed.  "You  are  so  cold,"  he  asserted 
with  an  access  of  indignation. 

"Cold?"  The  quality  of  the  interroga- 
[148] 


THE    ORCHID 


tion  expressed  the  incredulity  of  newly  dis- 
covered self-knowledge. 

"To  me." 

"Yes,  to  you,  Herbert." 

He  bent  his  brow  upon  her.  "I  suppose 
if  I  had  devoted  myself  to  some  other 
woman  I  might  not  have  lost  you.  I  had 
hints  enough  from  our  kind  friends,  which 
I  ignored  because  I  did  not  choose  to  soil 
our  wedlock  by  such  a  foul  pretense."  His 
conclusion  betrayed  the  loyalty  of  his  emo- 
tions, but  there  was  the  sneer  of  gathering 
temper  in  his  tone. 

Lydia  shook  her  head  with  a  fastidious 
smile.  "With  some  women  that  might 
have  been  the  remedy.  It  could  have  made 
no  difference  with  me." 

"It  is  not  too  late  yet,"  he  cried  with 
loud-mouthed  menace.     "You  forget  that 
I  am  human — that  I  am  a  man." 
[149] 


THE    ORCHID 


She  raised  the  pages  of  a  book  beside 
her  and  let  them  fall  gradually.  "You 
must  do  as  you  choose  about  that." 

"Then  what  is  the  remedy?"  he  shouted. 

"I  used  an  inappropriate  word.  There 
is  no  remedy  in  our  case." 

"Lydia,  you  are  goading  me  to  ruin." 

Striding  up  and  down  the  room,  he 
struck  his  leather  breeches  smartly  with  his 
riding-crop — which  he  had  brought  from 
the  hall  because  the  baby  liked  to  play  with 
it — so  that  they  resounded.  He  halted 
before  his  wife  and  exclaimed  hoarsely: 

"What  are  we  to  do,  then?" 

She  had  been  warned  by  feminine 
innuendoes  before  marriage  of  the  Max- 
well vehemence  below  the  surface,  and  she 
perceived  that  their  affairs  had  reached  a 
crisis. 

"Sit  down,  Herbert,  please.  I  cannot 
[150] 


THE    ORCHID 


bear  noise.  If  we  are  to  arrange  matters, 
we  must  talk  quietly  in  order  to  decide 
what  is  really  best  under  all  the  circum- 
stances." 

He  gave  an  impatient  twist  to  his  head. 
"I  wish  you  to  know  that  I  am  master  here 
after  this,"  he  announced.  Nevertheless, 
he  walked  to  the  chair  near  the  fireplace, 
which  he  had  first  occupied,  and  sitting 
down,  folded  his  arms. 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  say?" 

"To  begin  with,  Herbert,  there  is  no 
escape  for  either  of  us  from  this  calamity. 
And  you  must  not  suppose  that  I  do  not 
realize  how  dreadful  it  is  for  us  both.  So 
far  as  there  is  fault,  it  is  mine.  I  ought 
never  to  have  married  you.  But  the  past 
is  the  past;  I  do  not  love  you  now;  I  can 
never  love  you  again." 

"One  way  out  of  it,"  he  said  between  his 


THE    ORCHID 


teeth,  "would  be  to  kill  the  man  you  do 
love." 

"How  would  that  avail?" 

"I  have  thought  more  than  once  of 
shooting  him  down  like  a  dog,"  he  blurted. 

Lydia  shook  her  head.  "You  never 
could  do  that  when  it  came  to  the  point. 
And  in  case  of  a  duel,  he  is  more  handy 
than  you.  Besides,  who  fights  duels  now- 
adays? And  think  of  the  newspapers! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  that  such  a  thing 
is  out  of  the  question — on  Guen's  account 
if  for  no  other  reason.  It  would  be 
blazoned  all  over  the  country." 

"On  Guen's  account  I*  Why  did  you  not 
think  of  her  before  you  sacrificed  us  both?" 

She  looked  back  at  him  unruffled.  "I 
am  thinking  of  her  now,"  she  replied  with 
her  finished  modulation.  "I  have  told  you 
I  am  what  I  am." 

[152] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Do  not  repeat  that  shallow  sophistry," 
he  exclaimed  fiercely.  uYou  are  what  you 
choose  to  be."  But  in  the  same  breath  he 
fell  back  in  his  seat  with  the  air  of  one  con- 
founded. Then,  resting  his  elbow  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair  and  his  cheek  on  his  hand, 
he  gazed  at  her  from  under  his  reddish, 
beetling  brows  as  one  might  gaze  at  the 
sphinx.  "What,  then,  do  you  suggest?" 
he  asked  wearily. 

Lydia  had  shrugged  her  shoulders  at 
his  last  stricture.  Now  raising  again  the 
cover  of  the  book  beside  her  and  letting 
the  leaves  slip  through  her  fingers,  she 
replied  slowly,  "I  suppose  if  you  were 
a  foreign  husband  you  would  accept 
the  inevitable  and  console  yourself  as  best 
you  could.  We  should  go  our  respective 
ways  and  ask  no  questions.  I  should 
be  discreet  and — and  things  would  re- 
[1531 


THE    ORCHID 


main  as  they  are  so  far  as  Guen  is  con- 
cerned." 

"I  see.  But  I  am  an  American  husband, 
and,  though  they  have  the  reputation  of 
being  the  most  accommodating  in  the 
world,  they  draw  the  line  at  such  an  ar- 
rangement as  you  suggest." 

"I  thought  very  likely  that  you  would. 
Then  we  must  separate.  Sooner  or  later, 
I  suppose,  you  will  be  entitled  to  a  divorce, 
if  you  wish  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  "Where  will  you 
go?"  he  asked  in  a  hollow  tone. 

"I  have  not  thought,"  she  answered. 

It  was  the  truth.  Clever  and  discerning 
as  she  was,  she  had  put  off  the  inevitable 
from  day  to  day,  basking  in  the  glamour  of 
the  present.  What  would  her  lover  say? 
Would  he  be  ready  to  venture  all  for  her 
sake?  to  throw  convention  to  the  winds 
[154] 


THE    ORCHID 


and  glory  in  their  passion?  She  did  not 
know;  she  had  never  asked  him.  They 
had  never  discussed  the  future.  She  needed 
time — time  to  think  and  time  to  ascertain. 
Then  a  sudden  thought  seized  her,  and  she 
spoke : 

"I  shall  take  Guen." 

"Guen?"  There  were  agony  and  re- 
volting consternation  in  his  exclamation. 

"I  am  her  mother.  She  is  a  mere  baby. 
Am  I  not  her  natural  guardian?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  should  not 
permit  it!"  he  thundered.  "I  should  go 
to  law;  I  should  appeal  to  the  courts." 

Her  wits  showed  themselves  her  allies. 
"But  if  you  drive  me  from  this  house,  the 
courts  will  give  her  to  me,"  she  said 
triumphantly.  "What,  after  all,  have  I 
done?  You  are  jealous,  and  you  dismiss 
me.  They  will  let  me  have  my  baby." 
[155] 


THE    ORCHID 


The  horror  inspired  by  her  cool,  confi- 
dent declaration  choked  his  utterance.  He 
raised  his  riding  crop  in  his  clenched  fist 
as  though  he  were  impelled  to  strike  her. 
"You — you — "  he  articulated,  but  no  suit- 
able stigma  was  evolved  by  his  seething 
brain.  His  arm  fell,  but  he  stood  with  set 
teeth  and  bristling  mien,  like  a  wild  boar  at 
bay. 

His  fury  had  the  effect  of  enhancing 
Lydia's  appearance  of  calm.  "There  is  no 
use  in  getting  excited.  I'm  only  telling  you 
what  is  likely  to  happen  if  we  have  recourse 
to  desperate  measures.  She's  a  girl,  and  I 
brought  her  into  the  world — had  all  the 
stress  of  doing  so.  Why  shouldn't  I  have 
her?  I've  heard  lawyers  say  that  when 
parents  separate  the  courts  consider  what 
is  for  the  best  good  of  the  children.  Surely 
it  is  for  the  best  good  of  a  baby  girl  of 
[156] 


'  I  should  not  permit  it !  "  he  thundered.    "  I  should  go  to  law  ; 
I  should  appeal  to  the  courts." 


THE    ORCHID 


two  that  she  should  go  with  her  mother. 
That's  the  modern  social  view,  Herbert, 
and  a  man  has  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

As  she  proceeded  Lydia  had  warmed  to 
the  plausible  justice  of  her  argument.  Rec- 
ognizing that  she  had  put  herself  in  the 
best  possible  position  for  the  time  being, 
she  rose  to  go.  Maxwell,  gnawing  at  his 
lips,  stood  pondering  her  dire  words.  The 
appalling  intimation  that  he  might  lose  his 
precious  child  had  numbed  his  senses  with 
dread.  He  knew  his  wife's  cleverness,  and 
that  there  must  be  some  truth  in  her  state- 
ment. Might  she  not  even  at  the  moment 
be  premeditating  an  attempt  to  carry  her 
away?  Every  other  thought  became  at 
once  subordinate  to  his  resolve  to  safe- 
guard his  treasure.  As  though  he  sus- 
pected that  his  wife  had  risen  under  a 
crafty  impulse  to  get  the  start  of  him,  he 
[1571 


THE    ORCHID 


blocked  her  pathway  by  stepping  between 
her  and  the  door. 

"I  forbid  you  to  touch  her,"  he  said 
frowningly.  "She  shall  never  leave  this 
house.  I  am  going  to  give  my  orders  now 
and  they  will  be  obeyed." 

Maxwell  stood  for  a  moment  as  though 
waiting  to  see  what  response  this  challenge 
would  elicit,  then,  with  a  forbidding  nod, 
he  strode  from  the  room  and  shut  the  door 
after  him. 

His  departure  was  a  relief  to  Lydia. 
All  she  had  desired  was  to  be  alone.  She 
dropped  again  urjon  the  sofa  and  sat  look- 
ing into  space.  There  was  only  one  course : 
she  must  have  an  understanding  with 
Harry  Spencer.  What  would  he  say? 
What  was  he  prepared  to  do  for  her  sake  ? 
She  thought  to  herself,  "He  said  once  that 
my  time  would  come.  It  has  come,  and, 
[158] 


THE    ORCHID 


as  he  prophesied,  I  am  just  like  the  others 
— only  more  so.  More  so  because  they 
might  be  ready  to  give  him  up ;  they  might 
not  have  the  courage  to  persevere  and 
sacrifice  everything  else  for  the  one  thing 
which  is  worth  while — love.  And  I 
thought  it  would  never  come — that  I  was 
cold,  as  Herbert  says,  and  likely  to  be 
bored  all  my  life.  Now,  against  my  creed, 
against  my  will  it  has  come,  and  I  cannot 
do  without  him."  For  a  moment  she  sat  in 
reverie,  then  murmuring,  "I  must  know — 
and  the  sooner  the  better,"  she  stepped  to 
the  desk  with  an  impulsive  movement  and 
wrote. 


[159] 


VII 

LYDIA'S  note  was  a  summons  to  Spencer 
to  go  to  drive  with  her  on  the  following 
morning.  When  he  arrived  she  was  ready 
with  her  village  cart  and  a  fast  cob.  Re- 
gardless of  appearances,  her  project  was  to 
seek  some  distant  spot  where  they  would 
not  be  interrupted.  The  woods  near  Duck 
Pond — in  which  they  had  passed  pleasant 
hours  together  twice  already — commended 
themselves  to  hern  and  thither  she  directed 
their  course  under  the  mellow  October  sun- 
shine. She  spoke  of  their  jaunt  as  a 
picnic,  the  edible  manifestations  of  which 
she  disclosed  to  him  stowed  in  neat  pack- 
ages behind.  But  she  vouchsafed  no  imme* 
diate  explanation  of  the  true  purpose  of 
[160] 


THE    ORCHID 


this  impromptu  expedition.  She  was  bid- 
ing her  time  until  they  should  walk  together 
in  the  sylvan  paths,  free  from  all  danger  of 
interference.  Since  matters  were  approach- 
ing a  climax,  she  was  glad  also  to  give  her- 
self up  for  the  moment  to  the  glamour  of 
sitting  at  his  side  and  realizing  their 
affinity.  Of  all  the  men  of  her  acquaint- 
ance he  was  the  only  one  who  had  never 
bored  her;  who  seemed  to  divine  and  cater 
to  her  moods;  who  amused  her  when  she 
craved  entertainment,  and  was  alive  to  the 
precious  value  of  opportune  silence.  He 
seemed  to  her  possessed  of  infinite  tact — 
and  Lydia  experienced  an  increasing  repug- 
nance when  her  social  sensibilities  were 
jarred.  That  had  been  one  great  trouble 
with  Maxwell;  he  was  forever  doing  the 
right  thing  in  the  wrong  way.  His  very 
endearments  were  awkward,  whereas  her 
[161] 


THE    ORCHID 


present    companion's     slightest    gallantry 
gave  a  pleasant  fillip  to  her  blood. 

Spencer,  on  his  part,  was  quite  content 
to  ask  no  questions.  He  was  with  the 
woman  who  exercised  a  subtler  and  more 
permanent  fascination  over  him  than  any- 
one he  had  hitherto  met,  not  excepting 
Miss  Wilford,  and  this  drive  was  only 
cumulative  proof  of  favor  on  her  part, 
one  more  sign  that  their  relations  were 
approaching  a  crisis.  What  the  precise  and 
ultimate  result  of  their  growing  intimacy 
was  to  be  he  had  not  felt  the  need  to  con- 
sider. For  the  moment  it  sufficed  to  know 
that,  though  both  her  partiality  for  him 
and  his  influence  over  her  were  unmistak- 
able, she  had  up  to  this  point  kept  him  at 
bay — eluded  him  when  she  seemed  on  the 
point  of  throwing  herself  into  his  arms. 
This  skilful  restraint  on  her  part  had 
[162! 


THE    ORCHID 


served  to  heighten  the  interest  of  his  pur- 
suit, and  also  to  deepen  the  ardor  of  his 
attachment. 

Before  they  had  gone  beyond  the  limits 
of  Westfield  several  of  their  mutual  ac- 
quaintance were  encountered,  all  of  whom 
were  too  well-bred  to  betray  the  vivid  in- 
terest which  the  meeting  aroused.  Mrs. 
Cole,  on  her  way  to  play  golf  at  the  club, 
nodded  to  them  blithely  from  her  phaeton, 
as  though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  they  should  be  together, 
and  so  concealed  from  them  her  dire  sus- 
picions which  were  thus  afforded  fresh 
material  to  batten  on.  Gerald  Marcy, 
sportsman-like  and  dignified  on  his  griz- 
zled hunter,  saluted  them  with  the  off-hand 
decorum  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"Glorious  weather  for  man  and  beast," 
he  asserted,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  knew 
[163] 


THE    ORCHID 


how  to  mind  his  own  business.  When  they 
had  passed  him,  however,  he  tugged  ner- 
vously at  his  mustache  and  wagged  his 
head  like  a  soothsayer. 

The  newly  engaged  couple,  sitting  side 
by  side  in  a  village  cart  of  similar  pattern 
to  theirs,  managed  to  conceal  that  they  did 
not  know  which  way  to  look,  and  sus- 
tained the  ordeal  creditably,  though  the 
girl  was  conscious  that  her  cheeks  were 
flushing.  As  they  left  the  culprits  be- 
hind, Peggy  clutched  her  lover's  arm 
and  whispered  hoarsely,  "Did  you  see 
that?" 

"It's  too  bad,"  said  Guy,  who,  being 
neither  blind  nor  imbecile,  had  not  failed  to 
take  in  the  full  import  of  the  situation.  "I 
for  one  am  all  in  the  dark  as  to  how  this 
thing  is  going  to  end." 

"I  knew  they  would  be  great  friends,  but 
[164] 


THE    ORCHID 


I  never  supposed  for  a  minute  that  it  would 
come  to  anything  like  this,"  mused  the 
maiden  sadly.  "Even  when  she  chaper- 
oned us  that  night  I  took  for  granted  it 
was  nothing  really  serious." 

Mrs.  Gordon  Wallace,  who,  being  a 
new-comer  from  the  West,  was  less  of  an 
adept,  perhaps,  in  disguising  her  real  feel- 
ings, put  up  her  eye-glass  a  little  feverishly 
as  she  bowed.  Whereupon  it  pleased 
Lydia  to  whisk  her  head  round  a  moment 
later. 

"She  was  staring  after  us  with  all  her 
eyes!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  knew  she  would; 
she  couldn't  resist  the  temptation.  She  will 
report  that  I  have  a  guilty  conscience, 
whereas  I  was  merely  studying  human 
nature  in  violation  of  my  own  social  in- 
stincts." 

"What  did  she  see,  after  all?"  queried 
[165] 


THE    ORCHID 


Spencer,  supposing  that  his  companion 
stood  in  need  of  a  little  soothing. 

"Everyone  is  talking  about  us,  as  you 
know,"  Lydia  answered,  ignoring  the 
query.  "We  have  been  for  months  the 
burning  topic  at  Westfield,  and  the  fame 
of  our  misdeeds  has  spread  abroad.  Every- 
thing considered,  people  have  been  wonder- 
fully forbearing  to  our  faces — perfect 
moles,  in  fact — but  behind  our  backs  they 
are  chattering  like  magpies.  Fannie  Cole 
intimated  as  much,  though  I  had  guessed 
it." 

"Why  need  we  care  what  they  say?"  he 
asked  sedulously.  What  better  opportu- 
nity would  he  have  than  this  for  feeling  his 
way?  "We  know  that  there  have  been  no 
misdeeds." 

She  touched  the  horse  with  the  tip  of  her 
whip,  and  he  bounded  forward.  "Is  it  not 
[166] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  prince  of  misdeeds  that  we  love  one 
another?"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

"We  cannot  help  that." 

"But  since  it  is  true,  what  are  we  going 
to  do  about  it,  my  friend?" 

"Do?  Lydia,"  he  whispered  eagerly 
and  bent  his  cheek  toward  hers,  "it  is  for 
you  to  say." 

She  recoiled  chastely  from  his  endear- 
ment, though  she  thrilled  at  the  proximity. 
"Is  it?  I  am  not  sure.  I  asked  you  to 
come  with  me  this  morning  in  order  to  find 
out.  It  appears  that  we  have  reached  the 
parting  of  the  ways." 

"The  parting?"  he  queried  apprehen- 
sively. 

"Not  for  us,  unless  we  choose." 

"Ah."  It  was  the  sigh  of  an  ardent 
lover. 

"Wait.  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by  when 
[167] 


THE    ORCHID 


we  can  talk  it  out  freely."  She  turned  and 
smiled  on  him  with  an  effulgent  grace  such 
r.s  she  had  never  in  her  life  lavished  on 
Maxwell.  Therein  she  threw  wide  open 
for  a  moment  the  casement  of  her  soul  and 
let  him  perceive  the  completeness  of  the 
havoc  he  had  wrought. 

"You  angel!"  he  answered,  breathing 
softly,  and  he  pressed  her  hand.  He 
divined  that  her  dainty  spirit  was  in  the 
mood  when  all  it  asked  of  him  was  his  pres- 
ence, and  that  speech  would  be  a  discord. 

They  were  passing  now  beyond  the 
confines  of  Westfield  and  the  influence  of 
its  colony  into  a  more  distinctly  rural  coun- 
try— stretches  of  wilder  uplands,  now  pas- 
tures, now  woods,  alternating  with  small 
farm  buildings  around  which  the  fields  lay 
stubbly  with  the  party-colored  remains  of 
the  harvest,  and  redolent  of  autumn  odors. 
[168] 


THE    ORCHID 


Presently  they  reached  a  village  with  a 
shady  main  street  and  old-fashioned  white- 
faced  houses,  most  of  the  treasures  of 
which,  quaint  andirons  and  other  pictur- 
esque relics  of  a  simpler  past,  had  been  sent 
to  market  owing  to  the  lure  of  fancy  prices. 
Then  more  fields,  and  at  length  they 
branched  off  from  the  main  road  along  a 
winding  lane,  on  either  side  of  which  the 
view  was  partially  shut  off  by  clusters  of 
bushes  gay  with  the  colors  of  the  changing 
season.  The  perfume  of  the  wild  flowers 
was  in  the  air,  and  everywhere  the  blazon 
of  the  golden-rod  was  visible. 

They  had  exchanged  an  occasional  word 
of  comment  on  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
varying  landscape,  yet  wholly  impersonal. 
Now  once  more  she  turned  toward  him 
with  the  same  lustrous  smile,  and  said,  like 
one  exalted: 

[169] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Love  and  the  world  are  mine  to- 
day." 

Thrilled  by  this  confession  of  faith,  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  ardently,  and  encir- 
cling her  waist  sought  to  draw  her  toward 
him. 

"And  they  will  be  mine  when  you  are 
mine.  You  must  be  mine;  you  shall  be 
mine." 

She  freed  herself  from  his  grasp.  "Pa- 
tience, my  friend."  Her  voice  had  the 
tantalizing  exultation  of  an  elusive  fay. 
"What  should  I  gain  by  that?  Would  you 
love  me  any  more  than  you  do  now?" 

"Yes,  yes  indeed,"  he  answered,  disre- 
garding logic. 

"I  doubt  it  much,"  she  asserted  archly. 
"But  wait." 

On  they  went,  and  finally  the  bushes 
along  the  winding  lane  became  trees  and 
[170] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  sky  above  their  heads  was  obscured  by 
patches  of  foliage.  They  were  in  an  ex- 
panse of  woods  which,  in  spite  of  the  prox- 
imity of  civilization,  still  smacked  of 
luxuriant  and  elfish  nature.  The  road, 
though  yet  wide  enough  for  a  vehicle, 
wound  gracefully  between  oaks  and  pines 
stately  with  age.  Some  reverent  hand  had 
protected  them.  Their  trunks  were  scarred 
with  weird  growths,  and  on  the  carpet  of 
the  soil  big  fungi  flourished  unmolested.  It 
was  a  wild  region  to  the  imaginative  and 
uninitiated,  yet  there  were  evidences  now 
and  again  of  the  nearness  of  man  and  his 
devices,  such  as  an  occasional  sign-post  or 
rustic  seat.  After  half  a  mile  of  travel 
over  a  soft  brown  carpet  sprinkled  with 
fragrant  pine  needles  they  brought  up  at 
their  destination,  a  sort  of  sylvan  camp — a 
picnic-ground  in  reality,  a  favorite  resort 


THE    ORCHID 


of  the  masses  in  midsummer.    Now  it  was 
deserted    for   the   season. 

Bare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang, 

though  the  simile  was  applicable  to  the 
dismantled  wooden  buildings  rather  than 
to  the  face  of  nature.  The  band-stand  and 
eating  pavilion  stood  like  starving  ghosts 
amid  the  forest  mysteries.  But  there  was 
a  hitching-post  at  hand.  Lydia  knew  her 
locality,  and  after  the  willing  cob  had 
been  secured  and  blanketed,  she  led  the 
way  down  a  short  vista  to  an  arbor  or  sum- 
mer house,  to  which  clustering  vines  still 
imparted  some  semblance  of  vernal  cosi- 
ness. The  view  from  it  commanded 
through  a  narrow  clearing  a  picturesque 
outlook  on  the  glistening  waters  of  Duck 
Pond,  while  the  crackling  underbrush  fur- 
nished a  cordon  of  alert  sentinels.  On  the 
[172] 


THE    ORCHID 


rustic  bench,  where  many  inelegant  prede- 
cessors had  carved  their  initials,  there  was 
ample  room  for  two.  Nor  was  it  the  first 
time  this  pair  had  made  use  of  it.  Settling 
herself  in  her  corner  with  folded  arms  so 
as  to  face  her  companion,  Lydia  broke  the 
silence. 

"Herbert  says  we  cannot  go  on  as  we 
are." 

"He  has  intimated  as  much  several  times 
before." 

"But  this  time  he  is  in  earnest.  He  has 
put  down  his  foot.  He  introduced  the 
subject  yesterday  after  you  had  gone.  I 
told  him  again  the  truth — the  truth  he 
already  knew — that  I  love  you,  and  not 
him,  and  that  I  can  never  love  him."  She 
paused.  Was  it  to  pique  his  curiosity,  or 
was  she  feeling  her  way  while  she  revelled 
for  the  moment  in  her  declaration? 
[173] 


THE    ORCHID 


He  accepted  her  avowal  complacently  as 
a  twice-told  tale,  but  he  was  interested 
obviously  in  what  was  to  follow. 

"Well?" 

"He  declines  absolutely  to  be  accommo- 
dating and  resign  himself  to  the  situation. 
The  customary  foreign  point  of  view  in 
such  a  case  does  not  appeal  to  him.  When 
it  came  to  the  point  I  never  supposed  it 
would." 

"We  were  getting  along  so  nicely,  too. 
What  brought  this  on?"  Spencer  remarked 
parenthetically.  The  triangular  footing 
had  been  submitted  to  by  Maxwell  for  so 
many  months  without  an  outbreak  that  the 
logic  of  events  seemed  to  him  to  demand 
some  special  incident  as  a  justification  for 
this  sudden  revolt. 

"One  can  never  tell  when  a  volcano  will 
assert  itself.  He  simply  exploded,  that's 
[174] 


THE    ORCHID 


all,"  she  answered.  "The  wonder  is  that 
he  has  put  up  with  it  so  long." 

"And  what  is  it  that  he  requires?" 

"He  implored  me  never  to  see  you  again 
and  to  go  abroad  with  him  for  two  years. 
When  I  declined,  he  said  that  he  and  I 
must  separate." 

"A  divorce?" 

"We  did  not  discuss  precise  terms.  The 
idea  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  much  less 
complex  than  that.  He  invited  me  to  leave 
the  house." 

Spencer  made  an  ejaculation  of  astonish- 
ment. "At  once?" 

"That  was  his  meaning." 

"And  what  did  you  reply?"  Under  the 
spur  of  her  disclosure  he  had  risen.  Rest- 
ing his  arm  on  one  of  the  spiky  knobs  of 
the  rustic  pillar  in  front  of  him,  he  looked 
down  at  her  inquiringly.  Yet  his  long, 
[175] 


THE    ORCHID 


athletic,  indolent  figure  still  shrank  from 
the  conclusion  that  the  status  of  their  affairs 
had  been  permanently  disturbed. 

"I  managed  not  to  commit  myself  at 
the  moment."  She  paused  briefly.  "I 
desired  to  talk  with  you  first,  Harry.  I 
felt  that  I  must  know  what  you  would  like 
me  to  do." 

He  straightened  himself  as  from  sur- 
prise. "I  could  not  like  you  to  do  that — 
leave  the  house." 

"It  would  only  be  possible  provided  I 
went  to  you." 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  dumfounded. 
"From  his  house  to  me?  But,  Lydia" — 
the  boldness  of  the  proposition  was  so 
staggering  to  Spencer,  he  felt  that  he 
must  have  misunderstood  her,  and  was 
groping  for  her  meaning.  His  consterna- 
tion was  evidently  not  unexpected,  nor  did 
[176] 


THE    ORCHID 


it  elicit  reproach.  "No  one  would  call  on 
me,  of  course,"  she  said  dryly.  Then  she 
added  with  cumulating  tenseness,  as  one 
pleading  a  cause  which  she  suspects  to  be 
hopeless,  "It  would  mean  the  end  of  every- 
thing else  in  the  world  which  I  care  for 
except  one — my  love  for  you.  We  could 
leave  this  place  forever,  Harry,  go  to 
Australia,  the  world's  end,  wherever  you 
will,  and  be  happy." 

A  scampering  squirrel  with  a  nut  in  its 
mouth  hopped  into  view  on  the  path, 
scanned  them  for  an  instant,  then  bounded 
into  the  underbrush.  But  only  just  in  time. 
It  seemed  to  Spencer  that  the  little  animal 
was  grinning  at  him,  and  he  had  reached 
for  a  missile  as  an  outlet  for  his  doubly 
harassed  feelings. 

"My  dear  girl,  you  are  crazy." 

"Very  likely,  Harry." 
[177] 


THE    ORCHID 


"I  love  you  to  distraction,  God  knows, 
but  that  sort  of  thing  is  out  of  date.  Why, 
Lydia,  you  would  be  the  first  to  tire  of  it. 
Happy?  We  should  neither  of  us  be 
happy,  for  what  would  we  have  to  live 
on?"  The  final  inflection  of  his  voice  was 
veritable  triumph,  so  irrefutable  appeared 
his  logic. 

Lydia  gave  a  profound  sigh.  "I  knew 
you  would  say  that,"  she  answered  quickly. 
"But  it  was  our  only  chance.  Suppose  I 
get  my  divorce  and  we  marry  here,  what 
have  we  to  live  on  ?  I  have  three  thousand 
a  year  of  my  own.  And  you  ?" 

"Not  quite  so  much — assured." 

"Exactly.  And  there  you  are! — as 
Henry  James's  characters  are  so  fond  of 
saying." 

They  gazed  at  each  other  mutely. 

"We  should  be  beggars  with  our  tastes," 


THE    ORCHID 


she  resumed.  "It  would  never  do,  would 
it,  dear?  You  see,  I  have  considered  the 
subject." 

"I  perceive  that  you  have."  The  pen- 
siveness  of  his  tone  was  a  virtual  admission 
that  he  had  failed  to  recognize  how  subtle 
she  had  been. 

"The  other  was  our  only  chance,"  she 
repeated.  "I  would  have  gone  with  you, 
probably,  if  you  had  consented." 

"But  I  do  consent,  if  you  wish  it,"  he 
asserted  eagerly;  and  falling  on  his  knee  he 
reached  for  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 
yielded  to  the  intoxication  of  love  against 
his  reason.  The  charm  of  this  elusive, 
chameleon-like  being  had  got  the  better  for 
the  moment  both  of  his  discretion  and  his 
inherent  selfishness. 

Though  the  capitulation  entranced 
[179] 


THE    ORCHID 


Lydia,  it  had  come  too  slowly  and  too  late. 
She  shook  her  head.  "It  is  you  who  have 
convinced  me.  You  are  perfectly  right.  I 
should  tire  without  things — of  living  on 
next  to  nothing.  It  would  be  impossible. 
You  knew  me  better  than  I  did  myself." 
She  freed  her  hand  gently  from  his  bland- 
ishments and  smiled  in  his  face. 

He  rose  and  looked  down  at  her  again 
from  the  rustic  pillar.  "We  might  manage 
somehow.  I  should  be  ready  to  try."  He 
was  nerved  for  the  sacrifice. 

"On  six  thousand?  Oh,  no,  you 
wouldn't.  At  any  rate,  I  should  not." 

It  was  futile  to  pretend  that  it  would  be 
adequate.  "We  might  live  abroad.  Things 
are  cheaper  there,"  he  suggested. 

"But  I  don't  wish  to  live  abroad.  I  wish 
to  remain  here,  and  I  could  not  hold  up 
my  head  on  much  less  than  I  have  now, 
[180] 


THE    ORCHID 


for,  under  the  circumstances,  no  one  would 
call  on  us  if  we  were  poor." 

He  showed  that  he  saw  the  point,  but 
it  suited  her  to  enlarge  upon  it.  "If  one 
has  millions  and  good  manners  one  can  do 
anything  in  America;  everything  else  is 
forgiven.  But  I  would  never  put  myself 
in  the  position  where  I  might  be  snubbed 
or  pitied.  That's  why  I  must  be  rich. 
And  as  for  you,  Harry,"  she  continued, 
"unless  you  had  a  stable,  steam  yacht,  and 
at  least  two  establishments,  you  would  feel, 
after  you  had  cooled  off,  that  you  had 
thrown  yourself  away,  and,  consequently, 
we  should  both  be  miserable." 

He  laughed  a  little  sceptically,  but  he 
did  not  deny  the  impeachment.  "What  a 
clever  woman  you  are,  Lydia !  That's  one 
reason  I  love  you  so.  The  thing  to  do," 
he  said  in  his  caressing  voice,  "is  to  prevent 
[181] 


THE    ORCHID 


matters  from  reaching  the  desperate  stage. 
You  must  patch  it  up  somehow  with  Max- 
well, and — and  we  shall  find  ways  to  see 
each  other,"  he  added  meaningly. 

She  appeared  not  to  hear  his  suggestion. 
"One  million  is  the  very  least  that  you  and 
I  could  marry  on — and  be  perfectly  happy. 
And,  if  we  had  it,  we  might  be  very 
happy." 

Her  sigh  of  regret  encouraged  his  alert 
warmth.  He  leaned  toward  her  and  whis- 
pered, "Let  us,  then,  be  happy  in  the  only 
way  which  is  possible." 

She  raised  a  warning  hand.  It  was  clear 
that  she  had  understood  his  previous  in- 
nuendo. "To  be  happy  under  the  rose  is 
respectable  abroad,  but  here  it  may  mean 
social  ostracism,"  she  replied  demurely. 
"I  tell  you  that  Herbert  is  dreadfully  in 
earnest.  Besides,"  she  added  after  one  of 
[182] 


THE    ORCHID 


her  deliberate  pauses,  "Do  you  not  love 
me?  That  is  what  I  crave.  That  is  the 
essential  thing  for  me." 

"You  are  mocking  me,"  he  said  with 
choler. 

"No;  only  showing  myself  conserva- 
tive ar.d  sensible  like  yourself.  Neither 
of  us  can  afford  to  sacrifice  everything, 
yet  it  would  be  infinitely  preferable  to 
live  together.  You  must  find  our  mill- 
ion." 

Spencer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Where?  In  the  stock-market?  One 
plunge,  and  drink  wormwood  if  I  lost?  I 
will  make  you  listen  to  me  yet,"  he  said 
with  the  rising  energy  of  one  who  feels 
himself  at  bay.  His  eyes  gleamed  ardently, 
and  the  lines  of  his  dark  countenance,  little 
accustomed  to  brook  opposition,  grew 
rigid  as  they  did  in  the  moments  when  he 
[183] 


THE    ORCHID 


concentrated  all  his  nerves  on  accomplish- 
ment. 

The  charm  of  his  mastering  mood  was 
not  lost  on  Lydia,  but  its  effect  was  to  fix 
her  wits  still  more  closely  on  the  problem 
of  their  future.  Where  was  the  necessary 
escape  or  remedy  to  be  found?  She  lifted 
her  eyes  to  meet  her  lover's  gaze,  but  they 
stared  beyond  him  into  the  realm  of  specu- 
lation. Suddenly  she  started  as  one  who 
sees  a  spectre — something  weird  and  for- 
bidden. Yet  her  stricken  vision  seemed  to 
gather  fascination  from  a  longer  look,  and 
she  moved  her  lips  as  though  she  were 
bandying  words  with  doubts  which  fell  like 
nine-pins  before  her  intelligence.  Then, 
with  a  transport  which  revealed  that  she 
had  taken  the  intruder,  however  terrible, 
to  her  breast  as  the  bringer  of  a  dispensa- 
tion, she  exclaimed: 

[184] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Harry,  I  have  found  a  way." 

"A  way?"  he  ejaculated,  for  to  him  there 
now  seemed  only  one  course  open  consist- 
ent with  their  necessities,  and  he  feared 
some  radical  proposal  as  the  outcome  of  her 
trance. 

"For  us  to  marry.  We  shall  have 
enough." 

"Where  is  the  gold  mine?"  he  asked  in- 
dulgently. 

She  looked  at  him  musingly  with  bright, 
searching  eyes.  In  that  moment  she  con- 
cluded not  to  reveal  her  secret.  "Yes,  a 
gold  mine,"  she  answered.  "We  shall 
have  our  million — perhaps  two.  Why  not 
two?"  She  asked  the  question  of  herself, 
and  it  was  plain  that  she  saw  no  stable 
obstacle  to  her  now  widening  ambition. 

Meanwhile  Spencer  surveyed  her  with 
scrutinizing  wonder.  Evidently  her  trans- 


THE    ORCHID 


port  was  genuine.  He  knew  her  too  well 
to  doubt  that  there  was  some  basis  for  her 
specific  statement  as  to  the  money. 

"Two  would  be  better  than  one,  Lydia. 
Let  it  be  two,  by  all  means,"  he  said 
jauntily. 

"It  shall  be  two,"  she  replied  with  the 
assurance  of  a  necromancer  confident  of 
compelling  respect  for  his  magic  wand  by 
the  performance  of  the  marvels  he  has  fore- 
told. "You  may  kiss  me,  Harry — once." 


[186] 


VIII 

THE  nuptials  between  Guy  Perry  and 
Miss  Peggy  Blake  took  place  the  following 
summer — midway  in  June,  the  month  of 
brides.  They  were  married  in  the  little  Epis- 
copal church  at  Westfield,  which  since  the 
advent  of  the  colony  and  of  millionnaires 
had  thriven  like  the  traditional  bay  tree, 
for  most  of  the  sporting  element  belonged, 
nominally  at  least,  to  that  fashionable  per- 
suasion. Hence  the  rector,  the  Rev.  Percy 
Ward,  who  had  assumed  this  cure  of  souls 
with  modest  expectations  regarding  num- 
bers and  revenues,  had  been  pleasantly  as- 
tonished by  the  rapid  increase  in  both. 
This  had  not  made  him  proud,  but  appro- 
priately ambitious.  It  had  allowed  him 
[187] 


THE    ORCHID 


to  keep  the  appearance  and  properties  of 
the  church  up  to  the  mark,  aesthetically 
speaking,  by  vines,  flowers  and  fresh  paint, 
and  at  the  proper  moment  it  had  encour- 
aged him  to  ask  for  a  new  house  of  worship 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  his  growing  con- 
gregation. Success  had  crowned  his  efforts. 
Plans  were  being  drawn  for  an  artistic  and 
sufficiently  spacious  building  to  take  the 
place  of  the  rustic  quarters  in  use.  But  the 
bride  had  expressed  herself  as  devoutly 
thankful  that  she  could  be  married  in  the 
original  building,  for  she  had  pious  asso- 
ciations with  it,  and  its  smaller  proportions 
seemed  to  her  more  in  keeping  with  a 
country  wedding.  For  Peggy  desired  that 
the  ceremony  should  be  an  out-of-door 
affair.  She  had  even  thought  at  first  of 
being  married  under  a  bell  of  roses  on  her 
father's  lawn.  Yet,  when  it  came  to  the 
[188] 


THE    ORCHID 


point  she  adhered  to  a  ceremony  in  church. 
She  wished  to  be  wedded  to  her  true  love 
as  securely  as  possible,  consequently  she 
invoked  for  the  purpose  full  religious  rites 
at  the  altar,  but  her  energies  respecting  the 
other  features  of  the  occasion  were  bent  on 
the  production  of  open-air  effects.  They 
were  to  be  simple  and  rurally  picturesque. 
The  guests  of  the  happy  pair  endeavored 
to  comply  with  the  wishes  of  the  bride  con- 
sistently with  regard  for  their  own  personal 
appearance.  That  is,  the  women  came  in 
light  summer  attire,  but  with  frocks  of  fas- 
cinating shades,  and  straw  hats  of  the  latest 
dainty  design  with  gay  feathers.  The  little 
church  was  packed  to  the  doors,  and  on  the 
green  fronting  the  vestibule  stood  those  of 
the  men  for  whom  there  was  no  room  in- 
side. The  leading  members  of  the  hunt 
were  in  pink,  at  Peggy's  suggestion; 
[189] 


THE    ORCHID 


among  them  Andrew  Cunningham  with  an 
immaculate  stock  and  a  new  waistcoat 
of  festal  pattern.  It  was  a  radiant,  rare 
June  day;  not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky. 
The  ceremony  went  off  without  a  hitch 
save  the  momentary  hesitation  occa- 
sioned by  the  bridegroom's  diving  into  the 
wrong  pocket  for  the  ring.  All  Peggy's 
family  had  expressed  fears  lest  her  veil 
should  fall  off  in  keeping  with  her  tenden- 
cies, so  it  had  been  more  than  securely 
pinned  to  forestall  such  a  calamity.  She 
walked,  on  her  father's  arm,  modestly  yet 
firmly  up  the  aisle  as  became  a  strenuous 
spirit;  her  responses  were  agreeably  audi- 
ble; and  on  her  way  down,  though  she 
obeyed  the  instructions  given  her  to  keep 
her  eyes  straight  ahead — on  the  ball,  as  one 
of  her  friends  had  cautioned  her — it  was 
clear  from  her  blissful,  confident  expression 
[  190] 


THE    ORCHID 


that  she  found  difficulty  in  not  nodding  to 
her  friends  right  and  left  by  way  of  letting 
them  know  how  happy  she  was.  She  was 
dressed  as  nearly  like  a  village  maiden  as 
prevailing  fashions  in  wedding  garments 
would  allow,  and  the  simplicity  of  her  garb 
set  off  her  fine  physique  and  hue  of  health, 
which  not  even  the  conventional  pallor  of 
brides  was  able  wholly  to  dispel.  Four 
bridesmaids  tripped  behind  her,  the  picture 
of  dainty  shepherdesses. 

On  reaching  the  portal,  however,  Mrs. 
Peggy  was  unable  to  repress  her  exuber- 
ance; and,  before  jumping  into  the  carriage 
which  was  to  carry  them  to  the  breakfast  at 
"Valley  Farm,"  her  father's  residence,  she 
grasped  and  shook  ecstatically  a  half  dozen 
of  the  nearest  hands.  Then  as  the  vehicle 
containing  the  happy  pair  rolled  away, 
while  the  bride  threw  a  kiss  to  the  group  of 


THE    ORCHID 


friends  at  the  door,  the  swell  of  a  horn  rose 
melodiously  above  other  sounds,  and  along 
the  meadow  flanking  one  side  of  the  fore- 
ground the  pack  of  hounds  belonging  to 
the  Westfield  Hunt  came  into  view  headed 
by  the  Master,  and  every  hound  wore  a 
wedding  favor.  This  feature  had  been  de- 
vised as  a  surprise  to  the  couple  and  a 
tribute  to  their  devotion  to  equestrian  sport. 
Besides,  it  had  a  special  touch  of  interest 
for  the  women  in  that  everyone  knew  that 
Kenneth  Post,  the  Master,  would  fain  have 
been  in  the  shoes  of  the  fortunate  bride- 
groom. Yet  he  played  his  part  with  so 
much  dignity  and  spirit,  as  he  led  the 
way  toward  their  destination,  that  the 
contagion  of  his  demeanor  spread  to  the  en- 
tire retinue  of  guests  which  followed 
in  their  various  equipages  and  the  omni- 
buses or  so-called  "barges"  provided,  and 
[  192] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  procession  swept  along  on  the  wings  of 
gayety. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  getting 
away,  the  pole  of  pretty  Mrs.  Baxter's  vil- 
lage cart  was  broken  through  collision  with 
the  champing  steeds  bearing  the  phaeton 
containing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gordon  Wallace. 
Among  the  many  proffers  of  succor  the  first 
and  most  acceptable  emanated  from  Mrs. 
Walter  Cole,  who  had  obviously  a  spare 
seat  in  her  neat  oak  station  wagon.  The 
fact  was  that  Mrs.  Cole's  husband,  having 
been  detained  in  town  by  pressing  business, 
had  telephoned  his  wife  at  the  last  moment 
to  go  without  him  to  the  ceremony,  and 
that  he  would  follow  by  the  next  train. 
Consequently  she  had  arrived  only  barely 
in  time  to  get  a  seat,  and  that  by  dint  of 
crowding  the  pew  a  little. 

She  had  sat  there  as  in  a  trance,  unable  to 
[193] 


THE    ORCHID 


fasten  her  attention  on  the  charming  specta- 
cle as  fixedly  as  it  deserved.  Her  mind  kept 
wandering  elsewhere;  reverting  to  certain 
amazing  news  of  which  she  had  become 
possessed  only  the  afternoon  before,  and 
which  she  had  had  no  opportunity  to  im- 
part to  the  many  who  would  be  thrilled  by 
it.  She  was  revelling  in  the  thought  of  the 
sensation  it  would  produce,  and  her  own 
intelligence  was  agreeably  busy  with  the 
clever  novelty  of  the  procedure  and  with 
trying  to  decide  whether,  in  spite  of  the 
heartlessness  displayed,  the  solution  de- 
vised was  not  perhaps  the  best  under  the 
peculiar  circumstances.  She  had  felt  that 
she  should  burst  if  she  could  not  tell  some 
kindred  soul  soon;  but  such  an  astounding 
piece  of  information  was  not  to  be  wasted 
on  people  whose  faculties  were  already 
fully  occupied;  it  merited  a  single  mind. 


THE    ORCHID 


Therefore  the  moment  she  became  aware 
of  Mrs.  Baxter's  mishap,  she  exclaimed 
with  almost  hysterical  eagerness: 

"Rachel,  there's  a  seat  for  you  here.  Do 
come  with  me;  I'm  all  alone." 

When  the  invitation  was  accepted,  Mrs. 
Cole  pressed  her  hand  and  leaned  back  with 
a  happy  mien.  There  was  no  use  in  speak- 
ing until  they  were  free  from  the  concourse 
and  were  sweeping  along  the  road  toward 
"Valley  Farm."  That  auspicious  moment 
having  arrived,  she  turned  to  her  friend 
and  said: 

"Well,  dear,  the  mystery  is  solved." 

"About  Lydia?"  asked  Mrs.  Baxter 
with  breathless  animation. 

"Yes.  She  sent  for  me  as  soon  as  she 
returned.  I  went  to  town  to  see  her  yester- 
day." 

"Where  has  she  been  all  this  time?" 

[195] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Nominally,  as  we  were  told,  travelling 
in  Mexico  for  two  months  with  her 
cousins;  in  reality  coming  to  terms  with 
Maxwell  in  regard  to  a  divorce." 

"Then  they  are  really  to  be  divorced? 
How  pitiful!  But  I  suppose  it  was  the 
only  solution.  Do  go  on,  dear,"  she  added, 
fearing  lest  this  crude  philosophic  digres- 
sion might  be  the  reason  for  the  pause  on 
Mrs.  Cole's  part. 

But  the  narrator,  though  she  regarded 
the  comment  as  superficial,  was  merely 
arranging  her  ^material  with  a  view  to 
dramatic  effect. 

"We  had  a  heart-to-heart  talk.  She  told 
me  everything.  She  wishes  people  to  know 
— and  to  try  to  understand  her  point  of 
view.  Yes,  Rachel,  they  are  to  be  divorced. 
The  papers  are  already  filed.  The  lawyers 
say  that  it  is  simple  enough,  if  both  the  par- 
[196] 


THE    ORCHID 


ties  are  agreed,  and  it  seems  they  are — all 
three  of  the  parties  rather.  The  court  pro- 
ceedings will  be  as  secret  as  possible.  Her- 
bert is  to  let  her  obtain  it  from  him — for 
cruel  and  abusive  treatment  or  gross  and 
confirmed  habits  of  intoxication — to  save 
Lydia's  reputation  on  the  child's  account. 
Then  Lydia  is  to  marry  Harry  Spencer  and 
live  happily  ever  after — if  she  can." 

"She  never  would  have  been  happy  with 
Maxwell,"  remarked  Mrs.  Baxter  pen- 
sively. "Poor  fellow !  When  one  reflects 
that  he  probably  was  never  cruel  or  abused 
her  in  his  life,  and  that  his  confirmed  hab- 
its, if  he  has  them,  are  due  to  her  neglect  I 
What  is  to  become  of  him?" 

Mrs.  Cole  had  been  waiting  for  some 

such  question.     "The  law  is  queer,   you 

know,"  she  said,  by  way  of  disposing  of 

the  rest  of  the  plaint.     Then  she  added, 

[197] 


THE    ORCHID 


with  significant  emphasis,  "He  is  to  have 
Guen." 

"Altogether?" 

"Altogether.  That  is  the  way  Lydia 
got  him  to  consent  to  a  divorce." 

Not  being  so  clever  as  some  women, 
Mrs.  Baxter  looked  puzzled.  "I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand." 

Mrs.  Cole,  who  was  enjoying  thor- 
oughly the  gradual  climax,  sat  upright,  and 
facing  her  companion  laid  her  hand  on 
Mrs.  Baxter's  a,rm. 

"Rachel,"  she  said,  "Lydia  has  sold 
Guendolen  to  her  husband  for  two  million 
dollars !" 

Mrs.  Baxter  gave  a  gasp  and  a  smoth- 
ered shriek.  "Two  million  dollars!  The 
poor,  dear  child!" 

The  two  ejaculations  were  not  entirely 
consistent,  for  they  revealed  a  divided  in- 
[198] 


THE    ORCHID 


terest.  Mrs.  Cole  proceeded  to  face  the 
second  first. 

"I've  thought  it  all  over  and  over, — I 
did  not  sleep  until  four,  I  was  so  excited 
— and  there  can't  be  any  doubt  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  it's  the  best  thing  for 
the  child.  Her  father  dotes  on  her,  and 
Lydia  never  has  been  able  to  forget  that 
she  is  the  living  image  of  his  mother.  It 
was  probably  a  struggle — she  intimated  as 
much — for  it  sounds  so  revolting,  and  a 
woman  is  supposed  to  be  a  lioness  where 
her  own  flesh  and  blood  are  concerned. 
But  when  it  came  to  a  choice  between 
Guen  and  Harry  Spencer,  she  chose  the 
one  she  cared  for  most." 

"And  she  really  gets  two  millions? 
Why,  she  will  be  as  rich  as  before." 

"Exactly.  That's  one  of  the  interest- 
ing phases  of  the  case.  You  see,  they 
[  199] 


THE    ORCHID 


couldn't  afford  to  marry,  for  neither  of 
them  had  any  money  to  speak  of,  though 
they  were  dead  in  love  with  each  other. 
On  the  other  hand,  they  had  never  done 
anything — so  Lydia  swears,  and  I  believe 
her — which  would  entitle  Herbert  Max- 
well to  a  divorce;  so  when  Herbert  in- 
vited her  to  leave  the  house,  she  replied 
that  she  would,  and  that  she  would  take 
Guendolen  with  her.  It  just  happened  to 
occur  to  her,  but  the  effect  was  marvellous. 
It  enabled  her  to  hold  over  Herbert's  head 
the  menace  that,  when  parents  who  can't 
get  on  agree  to  separate,  the  courts  are 
likely  to  give  a  baby  girl  to  the  mother, 
and  oblige  the  father  to  be  content  with 
occasional  reasonable  visits.  That  fright- 
ened Herbert  nearly  to  death.  It  seems 
he  raged  like  a  bull — poor  man! — and 
threatened  to  shoot  anyone  who  laid  a  fin- 
[200] 


THE    ORCHID 


ger  on  the  child.  Now  comes  the  really 
clever  part,"  continued  Mrs.  Cole,  with  an 
appreciative  sigh.  "Lydia  had  threatened 
to  take  Guen  merely  to  gain  time  to  think, 
but  when  she  realized  that  she  and  Harry 
Spencer  could  never  be  happy  unless  she 
were  willing  to  lead  what  the  newspapers 
call  a  double  life,  she  was  at  her  wits'  end. 
Then  the  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  her,  and 
— horrible  as  it  was  at  the  first  glance 
— it  seemed  the  solution  of  everything.  So 
she  engaged  a  lawyer  to  open  negotiations 
with  her  husband,  and  she  went  away  to 
Mexico  to  give  Herbert  a  chance  to  think 
over  the  proposal.  She  lived  in  terror  of 
centipedes  while  she  was  gone,  but  there 
were  lots  of  interesting  old  relics  there, 
and  one  day  she  got  a  telegram  from  her 
lawyer  announcing  that  the  whole  thing 
was  settled.  The  necessary  papers  have 
[201  ] 


THE    ORCHID 


been  drawn,  and  as  soon  as  the  divorce  is 
granted  she  will  get  the  money.  What  do 
you  think  of  that?  Isn't  it  original  and 
revolting,  and  yet,  seeing  that  she  is  Lydia, 
comprehensible?  And  the  most  extraor- 
dinary thing  of  all  is  that,  when  one  con- 
siders the  matter  dispassionately,  it  is  not 
clear  that  it  isn't  the  most  sensible  .ar- 
rangement all  round." 

Rachel  Baxter,  being  of  a  less  philo- 
sophical turn  of  mind,  was  still  aghast. 

"What  will  people  say?"  she  added 
naively,  as  one  in  monologue.  "Of  course, 
they  have  their  money." 

"They  have  their  money,  and  Lydia 
proposes  to  come  back  here  as  soon  as  she 
has — er — changed  husbands.  That's  just 
like  her,  too.  She  intends  that  Westfield 
shall  treat  her  precisely  as  though  nothing 
had  happened." 

[  202  ] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Really!"  Mrs.  Baxter's  surprise 
showed  a  touch  of  consternation.  "It  will 
be  very  awkward,  won't  it?  Though, 
after  all,"  she  murmured,  "it  isn't  any- 
thing criminal,  like — "  She  found  diffi- 
culty in  hitting  on  an  appropriate  simile. 
Meanwhile  Mrs.  Cole  added,  dispassion- 
ately : 

"She  would  have  come  to-day,  but  she 
felt  that  she  might  be  thought  indelicate, 
considering  that  it  is  a  wedding,  and  that 
her  own  affairs  are  still  at  sixes  and  sevens 
so  far  as  appearances  go.  But  she  sent 
her  love  to  Peggy." 

At  the  moment  they  were  dashing  up 
the  driveway  of  "Valley  Farm."  Mrs. 
Baxter,  who  had  been  nursing  her  emotions 
as  one  whose  ethical  sensibilities  had  re- 
ceived a  blow  in  the  solar  plexus,  made  this 
attempt  at  a  summary : 
I  203  ] 


THE    ORCHID 


"It  is  diabolical,  but  interesting.  I 
wonder  what  people  will  say." 

No  time  was  lost  by  either  of  them  in 
spreading  the  abnormal  news.  But  it 
suited  pretty  Mrs.  Baxter's  temperament 
better  to  follow  in  her  companion's  wake, 
supplementing  the  narrative  by  ingenuous 
cooing  speeches  rather  than  by  an  indepen- 
dent excursion.  They  joined  at  first  the 
procession  of  guests  making  snail-like 
progress  toward  the  bride  and  groom,  who 
were  holding  court  in  the  drawing-room  of 
the  decorative  modern  mansion  built  for 
occupation  from  May  to  December.  As 
chance  would  have  it,  they  found  them- 
selves next  in  line  behind  Mrs.  Andrew 
Cunningham,  into  whose  ear  Fannie  Cole, 
bending  forward,  whispered  simply  the  fell 
words : 

"Lydia  has  sold  Guendolen  to  her  hus- 
[204] 


THE    ORCHID 


band  for  two  million  dollars,  and  is  to 
marry  Harry  Spencer  on  the  proceeds  as 
soon  as  the  divorce  is  granted." 

The  mother  of  the  hunt  made  no  sign 
for  a  moment,  like  one  stunned.  Then,  as 
comprehension  of  the  facts  dawned  upon 
her,  the  blood  mounted  to  her  face  so  that 
the  crab-apples  in  her  cheeks  were  very 
much  in  evidence,  and  she  bounced  com- 
pletely round. 

"That  caps  the  climax!  That  is  the 
most  up-to-date,  highly  evolved  perform- 
ance yet.  Who  told  you?"  The  sardonic 
ire  in  her  voice  was  formidable. 

*  'Ly  di  a — yesterday." 

Incredulity  snatching  at  the  chance  of 
exaggeration  was  thus  baffled.  "It's  mon- 
strous !  I  shall  never  speak  to  her  again." 

Appalled  by  the  bluntness  of  the  threat, 
Mrs.  Baxter  interposed  naively,  "But  she 
[205] 


THE    ORCHID 


is  going  to  live  here  after  she  is  mar- 
ried." 

"So  much  the  better."  Whereupon 
Mrs.  Cunningham  turned  her  back  upon 
them,  in  search  of  her  husband,  to  whom 
she  felt  the  urgent  need  of  imparting  the 
information. 

Mrs.  Cole  nodded  her  head,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  she  understood  the  point 
of  view,  but  her  perspicuous  philosophy 
prompted  her  to  take  a  much  broader  view 
of  the  situation. 

"It's  dreadful,  May,  of  course,  and  dis- 
concerting to  maternal  notions,"  she  be- 
gan; "but — "  Then  realizing  that  for  the 
moment  the  indignant  censor  was  other- 
wise occupied,  she  decided  to  reserve  her 
ameliorating  comments  for  a  more  favor- 
able opportunity  than  the  promiscuous  line 
afforded.  After  all,  the  episode  was  not 
[206] 


THE    ORCHID 


meat  for  babes,  and  undeniably  deserved 
more  than  flippant  treatment. 

The  news  thus  unbosomed  spread  like 
wildfire.  After  kissing  the  bride,  Mrs. 
Cole,  during  her  progress  to  the  piazza,  and 
lawn,  where  many  of  the  guests  were  be- 
ginning to  partake  of  refreshments  appro- 
priate to  the  occasion,  had  the  satisfaction 
of  throwing  it  like  a  bombshell  into  suc- 
cessive groups;  while  the  Cunninghams 
lost  no  time  in  revealing  what  they  had 
heard.  Wherever  it  was  uttered  it  took 
the  place  of  every  other  topic,  so  that  pres- 
ently all  the  adults  and  many  of  the  minors 
of  the  company  were  feverishly  discussing 
the  social  drama  presented. 

The  course  of  the  wedding  breakfast, 
thus  enlivened,  proceeded  according  to  pro- 
gramme. It  was  a  felicitous  scene,  what 
with  the  balmy,  brilliant  day,  the  brightly 
[207] 


THE    ORCHID 


dressed  assembly,  and  the  picturesque  ad- 
dition of  the  pack  of  hounds,  which  danced 
attendance  at  a  respectful  distance  within 
proper  limits  previously  prepared  for 
them.  After  everybody  had  congratulated 
the  happy  pair,  they  showed  themselves  at 
an  angle  of  the  piazza  to  cut  the  wedding- 
cake  which  stood  festal  and  massive  on  an 
adjacent  table. 

Then  at  the  proper  moment  the  bride's 
health  was  proposed  by  Gerald  Marcy 
with  dignity  and  grace,  in  pledge  of 
which  everybody's  glass  of  champagne 
was  lifted  and  drained.  The  bridegroom, 
goaded  into  speech,  made  a  few  halting 
remarks  expressive  of  his  own  happiness 
and  good  fortune,  ending  in  a  serious  tag 
of  chivalrous,  if  slightly  involved,  senti- 
ment, which  evoked  fresh  enthusiasm. 

Toasts  were  drunk  to  the  bridesmaids, 

[208] 


THE    ORCHID 


the  parents  of  the  bride,  and  the  Hunt 
Club.  In  response  to  the  last  of  these  Mrs. 
Baxter's  brother,  Dick  Weston,  who  pos- 
sessed a  deep-toned  voice,  started  the  club- 
song,  the  words  of  which  had  been  com- 
posed by  Andrew  Cunningham  in  his  salad 
days  under  the  inspiration  of  five  Scotches 
and  soda,  and  been  adopted  on  the  occasion 
of  its  first  delivery  as  the  property  of  the 
colony : 

Across  the  uplands  brown  we  ride, 
And  our  pulses  bound  with  life's  ruddy  tide, 
As  we  follow  the  hounds  o'er  the  country-side 
In  the  brisk  October  morning. 

So  he  sang,  and  everybody  joined  in  the 
refrain  with  genial  gusto,  not  excepting 
the  bride— "Miss  West  Wind"  still,  in 
spite  of  her  veil  and  satin  attire — who 
waved  her  glass  and  carolled  with  the  rest, 
until  even  the  hounds  seemed  to  catch  the 
[209] 


THE    ORCHID 


infection  and  added  their  notes  to  the  gen- 
eral jubilation.  Then  it  transpired  that 
stout  Miss  Marbury  had  found  the  ring  in 
her  piece  of  wedding-cake.  This  was  the 
source  of  some  merriment,  amid  which 
the  bride  slipped  away  to  change  her  dress, 
and  the  guests,  left  to  their  own  devices, 
returned  to  their  discussion  of  the  half- 
digested  news. 

Gerald  Marcy,  who  had  heard  it,  like 
everybody  else,  with  mingled  revolt  and 
bewilderment,  passed  from  his  functions  as 
toast-master  to  what  might  be  called  the 
storm-centre  of  the  animadversion,  a  small 
summer-house  or  arbor  on  the  trellis  of 
which  June  roses  were  blowing,  and  where 
the  Andrew  Cunninghams,  Mrs.  Cole,  the 
Rev.  Percy  Ward,  and  several  others  were 
congregated.  He  arrived  just  as  the  rec- 
tor was  exclaiming,  with  pained  fervor: 

[210] 


THE    ORCHID 


"We  have  here  the  logical  fruits  of  the 
present-day  degenerate  readiness  to  put  off 
one  husband  or  wife  in  order  to  marry  an- 
other. If  every  clergyman  in  the  land  were 
to  bind  himself  never  to  perform  the  mar- 
riage service  in  the  case  of  any  recently 
divorced  person,  some  headway  might  be 
made  against  this  social  pest — the  canker- 
worm  of  modern  family  life." 

The  symbolic  allusion  to  canker-worms 
caused  nimble-minded  Mrs.  Cole  to  glance 
up  involuntarily  at  the  vines  to  meet  some 
impending  danger  to  her  summer  finery  at 
the  same  moment  that  she  replied: 

"I  don't  think  it  would  make  much  dif- 
ference, if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so,  Mr. 
Ward — with  Lydia,  I  mean.  She  would 
be  content  with  a  justice  of  the  peace  if  a 
clergyman  were  not  forthcoming.  But," 
she  continued,  with  increasing  volubility, 
[211] 


THE    ORCHID 


"what,  of  course,  you  wish  to  know  is 
whether  there  is  anything  which  will  keep 
people  of  our  sort — not  the  wives  of  the 
toiling  masses  whose  husbands  beat  them 
and  who  feel  that  they  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  solace  themselves  with  a  second,  but 
the  four  hundred,  so  to  speak,  and  their 
friends — from  trifling  with  the  marriage 
relation.  There's  only  one  remedy,  in  my 
opinion,  though  I  don't  wish  to  be  under- 
stood as  advocating  it  in  Lydia's  case,  for 
I'm  her  closest  friend,  and  she  isn't  here 
to  defend  herself.  But  if,  as  appearances 
indicate,  she  has  overstepped  the  limit — 
though  you  all  admit  that  the  situation  was 
a  tremendous  one — the  only  thing  which 
would  cut  her  to  the  quick  would  be  if  the 
people  whose  friendship  she  values  were  to 
turn  the  cold  shoulder  on  her.  That's  the 
only  criticism  she  would  really  care  for, 

[212] 


THE    ORCHID 


Mr.  Ward,"  she  concluded  alertly,  with 
her  head  poised  on  one  side.  Mrs.  Cole's 
interest  in  philosophical  discussion  was  not 
to  be  repressed  even  by  her  loyalty. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  clergyman  ap- 
provingly. "The  force  of  public  opinion ! 
The  Church  is  merely  trying  to  lead  public 
opinion.  If  public  opinion  will  act  of  its 
own  accord,  so  much  the  better."  Mr. 
Ward,  though  faithful  to  his  principles, 
was  not  averse  to  let  this  section  of  his 
flock  perceive  that  he  welcomed  righteous- 
ness from  whatever  source  it  proceeded,  as 
became  a  liberal-minded  Christian. 

"What  constitutes  public  opinion  in  this 
country?"  asked  Gerald  Marcy.  "One  of 
the  evils  of  universal  liberty  is  that  there 
are  no  recognized  standards  of  behavior. 
It  is  all  go-as-you-please." 

"Amen,"  ejaculated  the  rector. 
[213] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Consequently,"  continued  Gerald,  pur- 
suing the  thread  of  his  contemplation,  "a 
social  boycott,  such  as  Mrs.  Cole  suggests, 
becomes  effective  only  when  the  particular 
set  to  which  an  offender  belongs  chooses 
to  take  the  initiative — which  is  awkward, 
for  where  exactly  is  one  to  draw  the  line?" 

"I,  for  one,  feel  as  though  I  never 
wished  to  speak  to  her  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Cunningham. 

"She  certainly  deserves  to  be  cut,"  said 
her  husband,  doughtily.  Yet  he  added,  "It 
would  be  precious  hard  to  manage,  though 
— not  to  mention  inconvenient — if  she 
comes  to  live  at  Norrey's  Knoll  and  every- 
thing is  patched  up  according  to  law." 

"There  you   are,   you   see!"   exclaimed 

Gerald.     "I  tell  you,"  he  said,  with  a  tug 

at  his  mustache,  "that  it's  very  difficult  to 

cut  people  whom  one  has  known  all  one's 

[214] 


THE    ORCHID 


life,  unless  they've  committed  murder  or 
embezzled." 

"It  isn't  as  though  she  were  a  bigamist 
or  living  in — in  violation  of  the  seventh 
commandment,"  remarked  Mrs.  Baxter 
dreamily,  remembering  just  in  time  to 
round  out  her  sentence  with  decorum  for 
the  benefit  of  Mr.  Ward. 

The  rector  jumped  at  the  opportunity 
offered.  "Isn't  that  just  what  she  is  doing? 
It  is  precisely  that  from  the  Church's  point 
of  view." 

"If  the  Church  would  only  pass  a  canon 
forbidding  us  to  call  on  women  who  get 
divorced  in  order  to  marry  someone  else, 
it  would  be  easier  to  take  such  a  stand," 
remarked  Mrs.  Cole. 

"But  it  isn't  the  divorce  I  mind  so  much. 
It's  her  selling  Guendolen,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cunningham,  with  the  honesty  of  her  tem- 
[215] 


THE    ORCHID 


perament.  "We  couldn't  ostracize  her 
simply  because  she  has  got  a  divorce  and 
married  again,  for  there  are  so  many 
others."  Her  tone  showed  that  she  real- 
ized the  impracticability  of  a  social  crusade 
based  solely  on  the  existence  in  the  flesh 
of  a  previous  wife  or  husband.  Yet  she 
yearned  for  action  in  this  particular  case. 
But  what  could  one  woman  do  alone? 

"On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  a  grand 
opportunity,  ladies,"  said  the  clergyman 
stoutly.  "The  conduct  of  the  offending 
parties  in  this  instance  represents  individ- 
ual selfishness  and  license  carried  to  the 
culminating  point.  Because  you  may  have 
neglected  to  do  your  duty  in  respect  to  the 
others  is  no  justification  for  flinching  now. 
It's  the  whole  degraded  system,  root  and 
branch,  which  I  am  fulminating  against; 
but  here  we  have  a  concrete,  monstrous  in- 
[216] 


THE    ORCHID 


stance  which  invites  action.  Is  ostracism 
never  to  be  invoked,  as  Mr.  Marcy  inti- 
mates, except  in  the  case  of  the  taking  of 
life  or  where  the  pocket  is  affected?" 

There  was  a  painful  silence.  For  a 
wedding  reception  the  discussion  was  be- 
coming decidedly  forensic. 

"We  must  think  it  over,"  said  Mrs.  Cun- 
ningham. "If  none  of  us  women  were  to 
invite  her  to  our  houses  or  go  to  hers — " 
She  paused  without  completing  her  sen- 
tence, evidently  appalled  by  the  vista  of 
social  complications  which  it  opened  up. 

"There's  nothing  else  in  the  wide  world 
which  Lydia  would  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Cole 
ruminantly.  "But  it  would  break  her 
heart." 

"Even  a  stone  can  break,"  Gerald  could 
not  refrain  from  whispering  in  the  speak- 
er's shell-like  ear. 

[217] 


THE    ORCHID 


"That's  not  fair.  You  do  not  under- 
stand her,  my  friend.  She  sold  Guen  to 
make  sure  of  Harry  Spencer."  Mrs.  Cole 
answered  in  the  same  undertone,  "When  he 
is  concerned  she  is  a  perfect  volcano." 

"Theoretically,"  continued  the  grizzled 
satirist  aloud,  with  a  bow  of  deference  in 
the  direction  of  the  clergyman,  "I  should 
like,  as  a  censor  of  modern  social  degen- 
eracy, to  see  it  tried,  but — but  practically 
it  seems  to  me  to  be  out  of  the  question." 

"One  woman  alone  couldn't  do  it,  any- 
way," blurted  out  Mrs.  Cunningham,  in 
the  accents  of  dogged  distress. 

Just  then  the  murmurs  of  a  small  com- 
motion broke  in  upon  their  dialogue,  and 
all  eyes  were  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
front  door. 

"The  bride  is  going  to  start,  and  she  has 
dropped  a  comb.  If  she  isn't  careful,  her 
[218] 


THE    ORCHID 


hair  will  come  down  after  all!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Baxter  by  way  of  elucidation. 

One  forenoon  in  the  month  of  July,  a 
year  later,  the  lawn-tennis  courts  of  the 
Westfield  Hunt  Club  were  all  occupied. 
The  reason  was  clear;  tennis  had  become 
the  fashionable  sport.  Some  of  the  young- 
er spirits,  who  found  golf  too  gentle  a 
form  of  exercise,  had  rebelled  successfully 
against  the  predominance  of  that  pastime. 
Consequently  all  the  people  of  every  age 
who  try  to  do  what  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  doing  had  consigned  their  golf  clubs  to 
the  recesses  of  their  hall  closets  and  bought 
rackets.  Until  the  present  year  two  courts, 
both  of  dirt,  had  amply  supplied  the  needs 
of  the  members;  indeed,  they  had  often  re- 
mained vacant  for  days  at  a  time.  Now 
even  four  additional  courts  failed  to  meet 
[219] 


THE    ORCHID 


current  demands,  and  everybody  wished  to 
play  on  those  made  of  grass,  of  which  there 
were  but  two. 

On  this  particular  morning  these  were 
in  the  possession  of  two  pairs  of  women 
players,  who  might  be  said  to  repre- 
sent the  antipodes  of  feminine  skill  at  the 
game.  A  couple  of  the  younger  matrons, 
Mrs.  Reynolds  and  Mrs.  Miller,  both 
adepts,  were  engaged  in  a  close,  fast  con- 
test. Their  balls  flew  low  and  swiftly, 
and  their  long  rallies  called  forth  frequent 
applause  from  the  spectators,  chiefly  wom- 
en, sitting  on  benches  along  the  side  lines 
or  on  the  piazza,  as  one  or  the  other  of 
the  lithe  young  women,  whose  restricted, 
dainty,  diaphanous  white  skirts  seemed  al- 
most glued  to  their  figures,  would  pick  up 
the  ball  when  it  appeared  to  be  out  of  reach 
by  dint  of  a  brilliant  dash.  The  other  pair 

[220] 


THE    ORCHID 


of  opponents  were  Miss  Marbury,  looking 
stouter  than  ever  in  flannels,  and  Mrs.  Gor- 
don Wallace.  They  were  tossing  slow, 
high  lobs  and  getting  very  warm  in  the 
process.  They  puffed  and  panted  audibly, 
although  the  ball  struck  the  net  or  flew  out 
of  bounds  much  of  the  time.  Yet  they  had 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  they  were 
in  fashion;  moreover,  they  had  the  sanc- 
tion of  their  physicians,  who  advised  the 
exercise  as  an  antidote  against  corpulency 
and  rheumatism. 

Most  of  the  men  had  gone  to  the  city. 
Douglas  Hale  and  Gerald  Marcy  were  on 
one  of  the  dirt  courts,  and  Walter  Cole, 
who  was  taking  his  vacation,  was  playing 
golf  with  Kenneth  Post.  One  solitary 
woman,  Mrs.  Cunningham,  was  on  the 
links  with  her  husband.  She  had  demurred 
stoutly  at  the  contagion  of  the  new  fever, 
[221] 


THE    ORCHID 


and  still  remained  faithful  to  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  royal  and  ancient  game.  The 
centre  of  club  life  was  undeniably  the  ten- 
nis courts,  and  thither  all  those  who  arrived 
directed  their  footsteps. 

Mrs.  Reynolds  and  Mrs.  Miller  having 
finished  three  sets,  repaired  to  an  isolated 
bench  to  enjoy  a  soda-lemonade  and  to  cool 
off  under  the  influences  of  a  friendly  chat. 
Mrs.  Reynolds,  who,  as  has  been  intimated, 
wore  the  breath  of  life  in  her  nostrils,  had 
got  slightly  the  better  of  her  adversary,  and 
was  inclined  therefore  to  be  on  the  alert,  if 
not  perky.  Her  ears  were  the  first  to  de- 
tect the  whir  of  an  automobile,  and  she 
pricked  them  up.  Then  the  toot  of  a  horn 
fixed  everyone's  attention  on  the  approach- 
ing monster,  for  automobiles  were  still 
more  or  less  of  a  novelty,  and  engendered 
curiosity.  In  another  instant  a  huge 

[222] 


-' 


A  huge  machine  of  bridal  white  .  .  .  tore  around  the  corner. 


THE    ORCHID 


machine,  of  bridal  white,  as  Mrs.  Baxter 
subsequently  described  it,  tore  around  the 
corner  of  the  road,  and,  dashing  past  the 
occupants  of  the  tennis  courts,  swept  up  to 
the  ladies'  entrance  of  the  club-house,  where 
it  paused,  snorting  like  a  huge  dragon.  It 
was  the  largest  and  most  imposing  "bub- 
ble" which  Westfield  had  gazed  upon. 
Many  of  the  spectators  left  their  places  to 
examine  it,  and  everyone's  head  was  turned 
in  that  direction. 

"It  is  they!"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds  with 
emphasis;  then,  after  a  pause,  she  asked: 
"Are  you  going  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"I  suppose  so.  As  it  was  a  'request  the 
pleasure,'  I  had  to  answer,  and  we  didn't 
have  an  engagement.  Besides,  she  has 
brought  home  some  lovely  new  tapestries, 
and  we  are  asked  to  meet  an  Eastern  sooth- 
sayer, who  is  said  to  be  a  marvel  at  mind- 
[223] 


THE    ORCHID 


reading.  Mrs.  Charles  Haviland  and  half 
a  dozen  women,  who  are  supposed  to  be 
fastidious,  are  coming  from  town,  so  my 
husband  seemed  to  think  we  had  better  go." 

"It's  because  she's  artistic  that  she  is  for- 
given, so  my  husband  says,  and  of  course 
if  everyone  else  is  going  to  'Norrey's  Knoll' 
there  is  no  sense  in  our  turning  up  our  noses 
at  the  new  master  and  mistress." 

"Is  Mrs.  Cunningham  going?"  asked 
Mrs.  Miller. 

"I  hear  that  Dick  Weston  has  bet  Mr. 
Douglas  Hale  fifty  dollars  to  twenty-five 
that  she  does." 

"I  suppose  Lydia  and  her  husband  have 
come  to  lunch  and  play  bridge,"  said  Mrs. 
Miller  musingly.  "They  say  she  plays 
wonderfully — almost  as  well  as  he  does. 
My  husband  objects  to  my  playing  for 
money." 

[224] 


THE    ORCHID 


"So  does  mine.  He  says  it  is  bad  form 
— vulgar  for  women — and  that  it  is  bring- 
ing American  society  down  to  the  level  of 
the  four  Georges.  But  how  about  men? 
I  obey  him,  because  I  am  of  the  dutiful 
kind.  But  how  about  men?"  she  reiterated 
trenchantly. 

Mrs.  Miller  dodged  the  question.  "I 
should  fall  in  a  fit  if  I  lost  seventy-five 
dollars  in  an  afternoon,  as  some  of  them 
do." 

"They  say  one  gets  used  to  it.  I  have 
made  Alfred  promise  to  give  me  an  auto- 
mobile as  an  indemnity  for  refusing  to 
play.  I  must  be  in  fashion  to  that  extent 
anyway." 

Mrs.  Miller  laughed.     They  were  now 

practically  alone.     The  occupants  of  the 

tennis  courts,  both  women  and  men,  had 

drifted  toward  the  club  entrance,   where 

[225] 


THE    ORCHID 


they  stood  admiring  the  new  machine  and 
exchanging  greetings  with  the  newly  mar- 
ried owners.  The  Spencers  had  been  in 
possession  of  "Norrey's  Knoll" — which 
Herbert  Maxwell  had  sold  to  Lydia — 
about  three  weeks,  and  on  the  morrow  were 
to  hold  an  afternoon  reception  for  the 
latest  social  novelty,  an  Eastern  sorcer- 
ess. From  where  they  sat  the  two  young 
women  were  able  to  perceive  what  was 
going  on,  and  presumably  it  was  the 
sight  of  the  grizzled  Gerald  Marcy  ban- 
dying persiflage  with  Mrs.  Spencer  which 
furnished  the  cue  to  Mrs.  Miller's  next 
remark : 

"Mr.  Marcy  says  that  'bridge'  is  essen- 
tially a  gambling  game,"  she  responded 
a  little  mournfully,  "and  that  to  play  it 
properly  one  should  play  for  money,  if 
at  all." 

[226] 


THE    ORCHID 


"Mr.  Marcy  says  also,  my  dears,  that 
there  are  no  recognized  standards  of  be- 
havior in  this  country.  It  is  all  go-as-you- 
please,"  said  a  sardonic  voice  close  behind 
them.  They  turned  in  surprise.  So  ab- 
sorbed had  they  been  in  their  dialogue  and 
in  watching  the  arrival  of  the  Spencers  that 
they  had  failed  to  notice  the  approach  of 
Mrs.  Andrew  Cunningham. 

"And  he  is  right,"  continued  that  lady, 
tossing  her  golf  clubs  on  the  grass  with  a 
somewhat  dejected  air.  "I  am  going  to 
surrender." 

Thereupon  she  accepted  the  space  which 
the  others  made  for  her  on  the  bench, 
and  folding  her  arms  turned  her  gaze 
in  the  direction  of  the  white  monster  and 
its  satellites.  The  elder  matron  vouch- 
safed no  immediate  key  to  the  riddle  she 
had  just  enunciated.  Mrs.  Reynolds 
[227] 


THE    ORCHID 


stooped,  and  picking  up  the  bag  of  golf 
clubs  examined  them  with  an  air  of  one 
who  scans  ancient,  fusty  relics. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  she  said,  "how  you 
can  keep  on  playing  golf  now  that  everyone 
is  crazy  about  tennis." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  smiled  wanly. 
"That's  what  I  meant,"  she  answered. 
"I'm  going  to  begin  tennis  to-morrow — 
and  I'm  also  going  to  Lydia  Spencer's 
reception.  My  spirit  of  opposition  is 
broken." 

"Yes,"  continued  the  mother  of  the  hunt, 
in  an  apostrophizing  tone,  as  though  she 
still  felt  herself  on  the  defensive,  "every 
one  is  going,  and  most  of  the  nice  people 
are  coming  from  town.  So  why  should  I 
be  stuffy  and  bite  my  own  nose  off  ?  Which 
goes  far  to  prove,  my  dears,"  she  added, 
sententiously,  "that  the  only  unpardonable 
[228] 


THE    ORCHID 


social  sin  in  this  country  is  to  lose  one's 
money.     Nothing  else  really  counts." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  the  two  young  women 
together  with  animation,  as  each  reflected 
that  Dick  Weston  had  won  his  bet. 


[229] 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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